


Some Things Never Sleep

by crossfirehurricane



Series: Queen of Winter, King of Fire [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Falling In Love, Gen, Intrigue, Jon Snow is a Targaryen, Lyanna and Rhaegar are Married, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Politics, Year of the False Spring, buckle up it's gonna be a bumpy ride
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-16
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-14 23:14:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 31,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4583814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossfirehurricane/pseuds/crossfirehurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>King Rhaegar ushers in a new era of Targaryen rule just as winter comes. As he attempts to regain lost trust between the crown and his kingdoms, intrigue and scandal make themselves known that threaten the very precarious balance he seeks to build in his realm.</p><p>Lyanna Stark, sixteen, is two years a wife, one year a mother, and a newly made queen. She is still exploring the waters of married life while she struggles with the demands of queenship; as she wades the gap between child and woman, the young queen must learn to adapt, and quickly, lest the ambitions of others threaten to topple her before she has even begun.</p><p>Winter is coming and the worst of plots begin to come to a boil; if the couple hope to survive, they must brace themselves, for better or for worse.</p><p>(This fic is a continuation of another; see notes for details).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. i - a meeting

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'm back!
> 
> This fic is a continuation of the events in A Shadow of Your Heart, which can be found by clicking the link in the summary for the "Queen of Winter, King of Fire" series. However, this still also be read without reading the entirety of the other. At the end of this note, I'll provide a brief summary of the last fic's major plot points.
> 
> As for those of you who know me from before, welcome back and thank you for sticking with me! You guys are the best, really. Now, this fic is going to be centered more around the court and political intrigue, but I'll still be providing glimpses into the lives of those in Winterfell, Dorne, The Vale, Storm's End, Casterly Rock, etc. There will be plenty of familiar faces, and some new ones, I promise you.
> 
> Here are those plot points for new readers:
> 
> -Aerys breaks off the betrothal between Rhaegar and Elia to marry Lyanna to Rhaegar instead  
> -Lyanna and Rhaegar repel a LOT before they attract; their marriage was not consummated until months later, when Lyanna wished for a child to cure her homesickness and loneliness at court  
> -Brandon gets Barbrey pregnant, who is almost married to Ned as a cover-up, until Brandon revokes his right to Winterfell (and therefore his betrothal to Catelyn), and marries Barbrey in secret, forcing Ned as the heir to Winterfell and Catelyn's husband  
> -To celebrate her pregnancy, a tourney is held in King's Landing for Lyanna. There, Lyanna catches the eye of Robert Baratheon. Out of loneliness and desperation for a way out, she pursues a brief (though unconsummated) romance with him. When Rhaegar discovers it, he disregards it, allowing her to do what she wished.  
> -Rhaegar travels to Dorne to smooth things over after the broken betrothal; he pursues a brief but unconsummated romance with Elia  
> -Lyanna learns that her chambermaid was impregnated by Robert Baratheon after Lyanna had rebuffed his attempts in getting her to sleep with him. Enraged, she writes him for money for the woman he impregnated, and to never speak to Lyanna again.  
> -While Rhaegar's in Dorne, Lyanna is brought to the throne room on behalf of King Aerys's orders; as he sentences two children to burn for stealing, Lyanna objects. Aerys returns the slight by striking her across the face. Lyanna is asked to keep this a secret by Rhaella, who did not wish to see war yet.  
> -Later, while Rhaegar is still away, she gives birth to a son, whom she names Jon in secret; the name sticks as Rhaegar returns and is unable to convince her of a different name  
> -Catelyn gives birth to a son named Robb  
> -Arthur stays behind in Dorne for a couple of weeks after Rhaegar leaves it; in that time, Elia seduces Arthur to fulfill her wish of becoming a mother, which ultimately does occur. The child is a boy named Lewyn.  
> -Rhaella dies in childbed, as she gives birth to Daenerys.  
> -As their relationship goes from awkward to amiable, Ned constructs a sept for his wife.  
> -Rhaegar is ordered by his father to put down turmoil by Maidenpool; Rhaegar moves his family to Dragonstone prior to setting out  
> -The stay in Dragonstone is brief as Aerys sends an army to return Lyanna and Jon to King's Landing, in order to "greet her husband on his return"  
> -Rhaegar returns to King's Landing with a wound from battle; before confronting his father, a distraught Lyanna seeks comfort in his arms and admits what Rhaella had asked her to keep secret: that Aerys had struck her months before.  
> -When confronting his father proves unsuccessful, Rhaegar hatches a plan  
> -The royal couple grow closer to the point of becoming confidants; Rhaegar buys her a moonstone ring on an outing  
> -Rhaegar ultimately takes advantage of his father's failing health by spiking his drink with a sleep-inducing concoction that is slow to absorb into the bloodstream. When his father is fast asleep, he sneaks into his chambers with Sers Arthur and Oswell's help to smother his father with his pillow, ultimately killing him.  
> -The great lords of the realm are summoned to hold a council to discuss the realm's future; all arrive save for the Greyjoys.  
> -Cersei Lannister arrives in King's Landing with a scheme prepared; Elia arrives to unite father and son.  
> -Lyanna, having finally come to trust her husband, shares her bed with him for the first time since their attempts at making Jon.  
> -Winter arrives in Winterfell, and the rest of the realm is not far behind
> 
> ...Obviously there's a lot, but we ARE talking about a 70 chapter fic here lol.

Removing himself from his bed that morning proved to be a difficult task. Rhaegar’s body was loathe to remove itself from his wife's warm side, particularly when too many hours of the night had been spent in waking. After their initial encounter, they'd found energy to lay together twice more before exhaustion pulled them under. Perhaps an unwise move the night before such an important day, yet it's sweetness was too great to regret it.

The council he had called was to be held midday, and for good reason; there was something of great import to be dealt with first thing in the morning. With Sers Arthur and Oswell flanking him, Rhaegar made his way through the castle to set a solitary apartments near Maegor's. The scent of perfume wafted through the halls before one even entered the rooms.

Rhaegar stops before the door, nodding to Ser Arthur. The knight steps before him and send the door flying open with a blow from his shoulder. He takes the lead inside, then places himself at Rhaegar's side once more.

"There was no need for any of that," a soft, tittering voice clucked. "I would have gladly opened my doors for you, your grace."

Rhaegar eyes the man warily, if he could be called a man. He was a eunuch, a sly one at that, and one Rhaegar had hoped had the sense to know where his fortunes would fall after he took the throne.

"You have not fled, Varys," Rhaegar returns, ignoring the quip. "I gave you ample time to. Now my mercy is at an end, and you leave me little choice."

A small smile lifts the powdered cheeks of the eunuch. His hands were folded in his damask sleeves, soft hands that had lain on the back of many of his father's chairs as he bent to whisper in his ear. Whispers that nearly cost him everything.

"Your grace, you know I live to serve the king. Nowadays, the king is you, and what a fine king you shall be. Thus, I stay."

"You had betrayed me before I ever took this office," Rhaegar said, eyes narrowed. "Your whispers poisoned my father's mind; you turned him against me, and as such, you endangered my family and I. Do you deny these things?"

"If I may be so bold, might I ask what whispers you speak of? For you must remember something; when the king asked, I answered."

"You know what whispers!" Rhaegar returned, an uncertain rage rising within him. He quells it before it grows out of hand. "Words that forced me into marriage, words the deflected attendance at the Tourney at Harrenhal, words that bred his suspicion of me when I moved my family to Dragonstone, words that made him ever more fearful of me-- I know it is you who whispered them. He told me as much."

"And as I had told you, when the king asked, I answered," Varys replied with chilling calm. "He asked for the purpose behind Lord Stark's southron alliances, and I told him that these were unusual alliances indeed. He asked who funded the tourney, and I told him it was an effort on the Prince of Dragonstone's purse and Lord Whent's. He asked for reasons why you would move to Dragonstone, and I told him many until he found one he believed. Do not underestimate your father's paranoia, your grace. He found many reasons to fear your influence. Was he wrong to do so?"

Rhaegar gritted his teeth at the truth behind his words. While it was true that he had been planning his father's deposition for years, such an action was repeatedly deflected until he was forced to do what he did. But now Rhaegar knew whose fault it was that he was driven to such desperation, and he aimed to have his justice.

"Did you find such sense in my father's rule that the threat of my own turned you against me?"

Varys’s smile wavers. “I serve the king, your grace. Sadly, loyalty comes at a cost.”

“A grave cost,” Rhaegar returned. “You would even see my own wife struck by his hand and keep your lips sealed.”

The eunuch is not so quick with an answer this time. His smile turns into a frown, and he bows his head ever so slightly. “That was an unfortunate day, your grace. Though as you know, your wife did seek to send you a message. The boy who delivered it to you was one of my many little birds.”

Rhaegar blinks, surprised. “The boy did not mention you,” he said dumbly.

“His job is not to mention me,” the perfumed man chuckles. “Every ear that listens for me listens well, and knows to hold their tongues. In this, you might find that my services are invaluable.” He walks over to his desk, fingers brushing over a lacquered wooden box. “I have people all over our lovely Seven Kingdoms, and some across the narrow sea too. Everything worth noting, and many things that aren’t, reach me in time. Your father so liked the many whispers that met my ears. I regret the harm they might have done to him, but alas, I served him.” He looks up to him, beady eyes boring into him. “If you were to kill me, your grace, could you find a more suitable replacement? As foul as I am to you, they do no call me the Spider for nothing-- and I would hate to see your kingdom crumble because your master of whisperers was in--”

“Enough,” Rhaegar interrupted, hating the feeling of being bested, but knowing that there was some truth in his words. He had always known that this Varys harbored skills that cannot be found in any other; replacing him would be difficult, and the consequences that may come with such an action could ruin him. “How can I be sure that I can trust you?”

A smile stretches his powdered cheeks. "Tell me what it is you wish to know, your grace. I will surely have an answer."  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
.  
The lords before him stare in silent anticipation. Rhaegar let his gaze comb over each one; Stannis Baratheon, Brandon Stark, Tywin Lannister, Mace Tyrell, Jon Arryn, Oberyn Martell. They were all proud in their own ways, Rhaegar knew, and they sat at this council to have that pride sated. His own men too were in attendance, Jon Connington at his left and Gerold Hightower at his right, with Sers Arthur and Oswell at the door, stony sentinels in a room of pale pink stone. Grand Maester Pycelle was present, and Varys too, who smiled softly in a seat far from his. The eunuch was too pleased for Rhaegar's taste, but he had learned that this would have to do.

"My lords, you know why we are gathered," Rhaegar began. "I aim to scourge injustice from our kingdoms, and I had begun so with the men who had occupied these seats before you. My small council is one I should like to build on the backs of those who help to keep peace in all the kingdoms, and not just mine own. I should begin first with the assignments."

From here, Jon took his cue to rise. He looked a different man when his red beard was shaved off, some of his intensity gone with his whiskers, but his eyes still burned with determination.

"The following offices remain with their previous masters; Hand of the King, Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Grand Maester, and master of whisperers, which belong to myself, Ser Gerold Hightower, Maester Pycelle, and Lord Varys, respectively.” Those four, it seemed, were rather irreplaceable. Ser Gerold was loyal, though perhaps to a fault, yet more than capable in his office. Pycelle had occupied his seat for many years, and proved himself a good and loyal servant. And Varys...

“The title of master of ships has been accepted by Lord Paxter Redwyne of the Arbor," Jon continued. Lord Paxter was a wise choice by all accounts, his fleet known to be large and powerful; this also offered a connection to the Reach, and by both blood and oath to House Tyrell, without having to tie himself to the Tyrells themselves. "Master of laws has been accepted by Ser Myles Mooton," Myles had once been his squire and still remained a friend; he had been more than happy to accept the position, one that Rhaegar knew he would take seriously. If he commanded justice from him, he would surely deliver. "And today, his grace offers the position of master of coin to Lord Tywin Lannister, as a gesture of goodwill and to restore him to the small council-- a new small council headed by a new king that would be honored to have him."

Rhaegar studied the lord's stony face at this announcement; he knew the man to be prideful, that when he resigned from his position as lord Hand it had been a gesture of spite toward his malignant father. This, Rhaegar hoped, would return the lion of lannister to his side; the wealth of Casterly Rock was nothing to be mocked, and the power of the Westerlands grew with each day. Had matters not grown sour those years back, it may have been Cersei Lannister he'd shared his bed with, and she he would call wife.

No smile breaks the lord's stern exterior. "I graciously accept, your grace," Tywin said in his low voice, pride echoing throughout his words. "In truth, it had been a hope of mine to return as your advisor; I had always seen promise in you."

Perhaps it was only empty flattery, but Rhaegar was pleased by his words regardless. "Thank you, my lord. It comforts me to know that you shall advise me." His attention returns to the rest of the men at the table. "While it would be my wish to offer you all positions on my small council, I have brought you all to humbly ask what for your advice on matters close to your hearts: I wish to know what grieves you and your lands, my lords, and I wish to rectify these damages and put your minds at peace. I beg you all to bring any matter, no matter how small, to my attention."

This was an invitation the group was hesitant to accept. Yet it was his goodbrother who spoke first to break the ice; Brandon Stark had an easy way about him in groups, and his words warmed those around him.

"The North cares for itself as it always have; yet a piece of it is closer to you than I. Continue with my sister the protection you vowed her, and Winterfell shall have no qualms with you."

Others soon began to speak. Mace Tyrell spoke of a thin harvest and therefore slow movement of foodstuffs on the Roseroad. Jon Arryn mentioned bold clansmen than have come down from their mountains to bully Gulltown. He insisted it was well in hand, but thought it worth mentioning. Hoster Tully seemed reserved, perhaps too proud to admit and issues within his borders. Stannis was stoic and silent, as he was known to be. Tywin reported that the Westerlands were well-- an understatement, for anyone who knew the Westerlands as well as Rhaegar. He’d spent years in Casterly Rock and observed enough to know that Tywin lorded over his lands in a fashion that would both shock and impress the surrounding lords.

Oberyn Martell, however, remained quiet. When all the lords had their say, he sat there, leaning back in his seat with his dark eyes fixed on Rhaegar. The king had heard too much of the Red Viper of Dorne to take this well. In truth, it made him anxious, but he would not let Oberyn realize that.

“What of you, my Lord of Martell?” Rhaegar asked of him when all else was silent. The man’s dark gaze didn’t waver. “Is there something you would ask of me?”

“There is,” the man returned before falling eerily silent again.

“What might that be?”

“I would ask it of you in private,” Oberyn said.

“What is discussed here shall remain confidential,” Rhaegar promised.

The Viper only chuckles. “What great trust you put in your lords,” he mused sardonically. “Regardless-- I shall wait.”

Rhaegar nods to quickly drop the subject. He forced his mind away from Oberyn’s cryptic words as the council continued; matters of peace and of improvements to the realm filled his thoughts instead as a great many things were discussed. Maintenance of the Kingsroad, cleaning up King’s Landing, placing more patrols on major roads, ferreting out malign freerider groups, tentative talks of alliances and future diplomatic visits-- All was discussed for nigh on two hours, and through the lunch that was served and the mead that was poured. And all through these talks, Oberyn said nothing. He only stared.

Soon enough all that required discussion was discussed. As he parted with the lordly lot for the day, Rhaegar hoped he’d instilled some sort of comfort in them. The king before him was one to be feared and hated; Rhaegar wished to be respected and loved. Some fear was not unwelcome, to be sure; but after a reign of great uncertainties, a little warmth could not hurt.

No sooner had these pleasant thoughts filled his head did they all turn sour at the sight of Oberyn Martell, still sitting in his seat like a snake ready to leap forward. Only his knights remained in the room, Sers Arthur and Oswell having taken to standing still as statues as they guarded the door from the inside.

“My attention is all yours, Prince Oberyn,” Rhaegar said, still standing.

Oberyn eyed him coldly for a moment longer before the thin line of his lips curled downward. “There is a child in my retinue, your grace. A babe just barely born.” He voice was low and harsh as he spoke. “Despite my efforts to pass it as my bastard son, my sister continues to recite the truth of the matter: the child is hers.”

Rhaegar is taken aback by this; he’d gotten no such word of Elia bearing a child. Such a thing was unthinkable; the good princess was kind, well-mannered. She had been a sweet distraction in Dorne, and though willing to enter his bed, he had allowed no such thing. Did she let someone else in, out of heartbreak?

“I come to King’s Landing to find the babe’s father,” Oberyn continued, rising to his feet. “My sister has sworn to me many things, and I do not take her for a liar-- yet there is a lack of purple-eyed men in the realm, and I know of only one who came to visit my sister a little over nine moons’ turns ago.”

Rhaegar knows not what to say and remain in the construct of propriety. Simply stating that he did not lay with the man’s sister seemed too crass. “My lord, the child is not mine, if that is what you imply,” Rhaegar finally says. 

“Of course not,” Oberyn replies with a cruel smile. “I would never shame his majesty’s name so; nor would you wish to shame our sister twice. Therefore I ask for your help to find the man who put this child in my sister’s belly, for she will not say. That is the boon House Nymeros Martell asks of you.”

Rhaegar is speechless; what could he say to this? A refusal would seem like an admittance of guilt, yet acceptance would mean he was to perform a ridiculous, perhaps impossible task. If the man who’d given Elia her babe remained in Dorne, by what means was Rhaegar to find him? And a purple-eyed babe, here at his court, born nine moons’ turns after Rhaegar’s visit…

“I shall endeavor to find the truth of the matter, Prince Oberyn,” Rhaegar returns, resolute. Scandal was not how he wished to begin his reign; he would clear his name by finding the foolish man who comforted Princess Elia.

“I’m overjoyed to hear it,” he says, still smiling that mad smile, black eyes gleaming now. “Please give my regards to your wife, King Rhaegar.”

As Oberyn turned on his heel to walk out the door, Rhaegar’s heart goes still for a moment. _Lyanna._ Would that this news never reached her; such a rumor would be certain to ruin what had taken far too long to build.


	2. ii - a wolf's court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna breaks fast with the visiting ladies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy!

It was such _tricky_ business, entertaining. Lyanna had been social as a child, yet as the years went by she’d found herself more reserved to few confidants outside of her family than a circle of friends. Brandon insisted this was because she was unlikable, not because she was picky. She’d always huff and ignore that.

Sitting in the gardens now, highborn ladies surrounding her like a gaggle of hens, Lyanna felt awfully out of her element. When it had been just her ladies-in-waiting, it had taken ages before she learned to open up with them. But these women were strangers, and beautiful and powerful ones at that. Perhaps the most beautiful and powerful was the woman flanking her now; the ever radiant Cersei Lannister, whose golden curls shone in the sun while her skin glowed beneath her rosy cheeks. Beside her, Lyanna likely looked little better than a dormouse.

The location should help soften this contrast. They were all seated at a long table in a rose arbor, with Lyanna at the head of it. The women around her chatted amongst themselves as they awaited their queen to utter some welcoming words; Lyanna had tarried far too long in this task already. Her tongue as heavy as lead in her mouth as her thoughts tried so desperately to fashion some eloquent words. All that she had recited before the mirror so many nights in a row seemed now scattered uselessly to the wind. Or perhaps they were still resting atop her pillow, where pleasure had taken both her tongue and wits the night before.

 _No, no, that is entirely the wrong thing to think of right now,_ Lyanna warned herself as she beat back a blush. _Say something you fool, anything…_

She cleared her throat and rose to her feet, prompting every lady to quiet immediately. So many eyes stared back at her of every hue; Lyanna suddenly wished to turn and run indoors where her little Jon was so she may hide her face in the crook of his neck and smell his sweet scent.

 _I am a queen, and a Stark besides,_ she reminds herself. _A young queen, yes, but title makes me stronger._

“On behalf of his grace the king and myself, I would welcome you good ladies to-- to King's Landing," she says in a voice that starts high before falling to its normal timbre. This many judging eyes was having a greater effect than she would have liked. "I hope your journeys here were not too arduous." She pauses, perhaps at an incorrect time, before continuing. "Since the night before, our cooks have been hard to work to prepare the food to break your fasts with." She motions to the scores of servants that came in from the flowery archway bearing trays upon trays of food, the group breaking in two as equal amounts traveled to opposite sides of the table. This was a bit of theatrics, she knew, but Lyanna had never been one to dislike theatrics.

As they laid down the platters of food and unveiled them, soft murmurs of amusement arose from the women. Lyanna took a moment to feel pleased with herself before continuing. "I ask the honor of you ladies joining me in breaking my fast this fine morn; if there is anything you require, please ask it of me." She remained on her feet a little longer, wondering if she'd be met with applause or thanks. Instead they all smiled at her-- most of them anyways --and eyed her as she finally dropped into her seat. In her haste, Lyanna had forgotten her closing sentiment. By now, however, it was too late.

Perhaps she had been foolish to expect a greater reaction, yet Lyanna was disappointed all the same. Her smile was wan as a servant filled her plate before the others, and even with the tempting sight settled before her, Lyanna had not the appetite. She could still feel eyes upon her as she took an obligatory first bite, allowing the others to begin eating.

 _I cannot allow them to make me feel uncomfortable,_ she chastised herself. _This is my castle, my court. I am a Stark and I shall make them love me._ At the same time she found herself cursing the fact that she had not asked for help from Queen Rhaella when she had offered; but now that queen was dead, and Lyanna was in her place. She would have to teach herself.

The table of ladies was too intimidating a task to tackle first in conversation; she began with the ladies closest to her, most of which she recognized. Lady Cersei Lannister, Princess Elia Martell, Lady Olenna Tyrell, Lady Alerie Hightower-- those she recognized.

“How have you all found King’s Landing so far?” She asked, drawing their attentions. “Has the city treated you well?”

“‘Tis a filthy city, if truth be told,” Lady Olenna remarked. She was an older woman, with wrinkles lining her face, and her red hair beginning to grey, yet it was clear that she was once very handsome. “I had to hold my handkerchief to my nose as we walked through it. Awful smell.”

“ _Mother_ ,” Lady Alerie warned beside her. “That is not kind to say.”

Yet the older lady’s frank tongue did not jar her. On the contrary, unpolished conversation was easier to respond to than practiced. Lyanna smiled as she responded. “I agree with you, Lady Olenna. I do not make many trips in the city for this reason; the smell doesn’t come out of my clothes until they’re washed. We’ve plans for sanitation, however. Among other improvements to the city.”

 

“That’s a relief,” Olenna responded with a small smile of her own. “Though I’m already beginning to dread leaving the city and having to walk through those streets again. I’ll have to perfume my handkerchief when I leave.”

“Which won’t be soon, I hope. You’re an honored guest for as long as you wish to stay, my lady.” That sounded like the right thing to say.

“I personally have found the city to be lovely,” Cersei cuts in, looking more regal than Lyanna in her gown of red silk. “But then again, I do hope to call the city my home, and home is always beautiful. Have you thought on my offer of becoming your lady-in-waiting, your grace?” Her smile was a cool one, as if she already knew the answer. In truth, there was never any doubt. Lorena Rosby was wedded and living in her husband’s home; Lyanna would need to replace her, and Cersei Lannister was her best choice. In any case, Lyanna could never reject her. She was the lady of a house greater than her other ladies’. To turn her down would be to humiliate her, and to humiliate her would be madness.

“Yes, I-- I accept, of course.” What else was there to say? Upon those words, the woman seemed satisfied enough, green eyes sparkling in glee.

“Following in your mother’s footsteps, I see.” Lyanna looks to Elia, who had just spoken up. She had no companions with her, not even Lady Ashara Dayne who was said to be her close friend. She had been invited, yet the woman was absent from her side. “She would be proud,” Elia adds, and despite her warm voice and soft smile, Cersei’s gaze darkens.

“Your lady mother did once serve the queen, didn’t she?” Olenna said, blue eyes trained on Cersei. “Well, until she and the mad king--”

“ _Mother_ ,” Alerie warned again.

Lyanna’s curiosity had been spiked. She wanted to hear more of this; she had only known that Lady Joanna Lannister served as a lady-in-waiting to Rhaella, and nothing more. The late queen had even told her the woman’s story of wealth and luck, and of her untimely end. But what was this about the mad king?

“My only desire is to honor my mother’s memory,” Cersei returns, her voice proud. “It would be truly perfect if you could join me, princess, as your own mother did once. Yet I suppose you cannot, not with your child.”

 _Child?_ It appears there was much Lyanna did not know. She looks to the Dornish princess to find her calm expression had not changed in the least.

“That is true,” Elia responds coolly. “I must honor my mother’s memory in other ways, by being a mother myself.” Then she smiled, and took a bite of her food.

“I was not aware you had a child,” Lyanna finally uttered, hoping she did not sound stupid.

“A bastard,” Olenna corrects, shooting daggers into the Dornish princess. Lyanna recalled Rhaegar mentioning the venom between Houses Tyrell and Martell with a lump in her throat.

“A son, your grace. Named after his great-uncle in the Kingsguard,” Elia informed her with a kind smile, disregarding Lady Olenna entirely. The Dornishwoman was truly beautiful, though frail and thin. Even set in her gaunt face, her eyes held immeasurable warmth, and her glossy black hair was a thing of envy.

“Ser Lewyn. A fine name for what must be a fine boy. How old is he?” At the very least, Lyanna would not allow the others to shame her. Bastard or no, a child was a child, and Lyanna knew well enough how precious a first born son could be to a mother.

“Only a few moons’ turns, your grace,” Elia replies.

“He must be so little!” Lyanna exclaimed, still smiling. “My boy will see his first year in but a few days. I can hardly believe how quickly he’s grown; yours will likely do the same. Do not miss a moment, princess.”

“Your grace, there is no need to liken your boy to her’s,” Olenna remarks loudly, drawing stares from the other ladies at the table. “Your boy shall inherit the Seven Kingdoms, and hers will have nothing with his doomed surname.” The venom in her voice jarred Lyanna; such rivalry and bare-faced cruelty was unheard of from the northern bannerman who loved her father so. She too wanted to be loved; yet she also wanted to be true.

“Peace, Lady Olenna,” Lyanna told the woman with a hard stare. “I want us to break fast as friends, not as enemies. I beg you to put aside such unkindness.”

“Do you aim to lecture me, child?” The older woman returned in all callousness. Lyanna felt her cheeks grow hot with rage and embarrassment. “Today is not day I become friends with a Martell, not even on your orders, your grace.” She said it mockingly and with a boldness that sent a hot flash of anger coursing through Lyanna’s veins. Beneath the table Lyanna bunched her gown between closed fists. “Do not ask it of me again.” At those last words, Lyanna felt the last of her restraint give way to her rage, and she began to reprimand,

“Lady Olenna,” she hissed, “I am your--”

“Lady Olenna, to each their own opinions,” Cersei Lannister purrs, her hand covering Lyanna’s beneath the table and putting her to silence. “Yet I too am friends with Princess Elia, and such conversation would be better done in private, over a cup of mulled wine, yes?”

The old woman pinned Cersei with a cruel glare before she finally yielded. “Over wine, yes. Such a thing would loosen my tongue, and I have plenty to say.” She scoffed, then returned to her meal as if nothing had passed.

The other ladies at the table sat and stared. Lyanna felt her flush grow worse. _Ruined, it is all ruined,_ Lyanna seethes. _Allowing argument like this-- what a queen I am!_ Suddenly, she felt like little more than a girl stepping into a pair of her mother’s large shoes. It was ill-fitting, and she still had much to grow.

Though Cersei was the one to put this to rest, it was Lyanna that received a private smile from Princess Elia. Her bronzed skin seemed to glow from the warmth of it, and immediately Lyanna felt calmed. Her black eyes appeared to be thanking her for her valor, however foolish it was. Regardless, it was well-received.

She gave Cersei’s hand a squeeze below the table before slipping out of her grip. The golden woman was smiling serenely as she chatted with Alerie, looking the very image of a queen. _She knows this game better than I. And how not? She had known this court since infancy,_ Lyanna broods. _Perhaps I may learn from her._

With that thought in mind, Lyanna took a bite of her food, and washed down the bacon and ire with a cup of cold water.


	3. iii - fated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brandon finds himself in bed with a beautiful women.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because some things never change. Enjoy!

Brandon turns over in bed, messy sheets twisting around his legs as he did, and was met with the sight of the most beautiful woman in the world. Her skin glowed in the rays of the morning sun, dark hair shiny and tousled, thick lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. He cannot remember the last time he’d taken someone so gorgeous to bed; and he doubted he ever would again.

She had been an enormously simple task to woo. They both had their share of wine when Brandon had stolen a dance from her from the night before. He had always been a fine dancer, and she had her feet on the floor ever since the music kicked up. Yet Ashara Dayne had no lack of partners; man after man danced with her, from common knights to her own famous brother. When Brandon had cut in, she remained in his arms for the rest of the night.

He ghosted a hand over her bare shoulder, dragging his touch down over her hip. She shivered, causing little gooseprickles to rise on her smooth skin. He could see her eyes move beneath her eyelids.

Brandon moved to roll atop her, his knee finding purchase between her legs, and his face burying in her fragrant neck. She giggled beneath him, a hand smoothing the scratches she left upon his back. He felt nothing more than a dull ache from the marks; a sensation that he rather liked.

He clucked his tongue in mock disapproval. "Lady Ashara Dayne," he said in tone of feigned scandal. "Whatever would become of you if word got out that you bled the heir to the North?"

She giggled again. "Nothing, for the heir resides in Winterfell, and he would have been too far from my reach."

Brandon grunted in agreement. Too often he forgot the matter of his disinheritance. Not that he missed the burden, oh no. The only good part of his birthright had been to crack jests when abed with beautiful women, and he was now.

"Then all you have to fear is your brother, should he come upon us." He removed his face from her fragrant neck to meet her eyes. Even heavy-lidded with exhaustion, they were lovely sights. Pools of light purple framed by thick, dark lashes... In fact, had it not been for her hair, he'd have thought himself in bed with a Targaryen. "Or is it me that must be afraid?"

"You, certainly," she returned with a peck on the lips. Her hand was smoothing back his hair now, and caressing his jaw. "He would cut you in half in a single stroke, and kiss my cheeks straight after."

"The bloody Sword of the Morning," he mumbled, his hand moving to cup a full breast. They proved large enough to fill even his hands, a fact that brought them both great pleasure the night before. "How did he even get a name like that? Did he wake up one morning to find his cock hard and chose to announce it to the world?"

This made her laugh; she arched toward his body as reward. "If you possessed thought beyond that of cocks, the answer would come easier to you," she teases. "The man who wields Dawn _is_ the Sword of the Morning. 'Tis a play on words."

"I knew that," he returned. "I only meant it as a jest."

"Of course you knew," she continued in her playful tone. "But it was not for your boundless knowledge that I went to bed with you."

"No? What was it then?" He asked, grinning as his cock stirred to life against her thigh. She gasped and smiled, but said nothing in return. His hand slips between her legs; the discovery of her already wet stirs his loins again. He leaned down to press a wet kiss to her ear. "Won't you say?"

"For fear of stroking your ego, I will not," she murmured, her body grinding slowly against his hand. Then suddenly, she catches him off guard and flips him onto his back. She tightens her legs around his hips, then leans back, allowing her shapely body to catch the dim light that filtering through the draped window. "In any case, 'tis not my job to inflate your head. Ask pretty words of your wife, for I shall give you none."

Brandon quickly mellows at the mention of his wife. It was not that he didn't expect Ashara to know; it was that he did not expect her to mention it. Brandon himself seemed to have forgotten that he was a married man with a child and another on the way. To be reminded of it by his bedmate made it worse. This change of mood passed quickly, however, as he was allowed full view of her lovely body. His hand trails up her torso to play with a pink nipple.

"Don't concern yourself with the head atop my shoulders then," he returned, his roguish smile returning. "There is one pressed between your legs that would have your attention instead."

She chuckles. "Aren't I fortunate?" She whispered before leaning down to press her lips to his. She tasted something divine, of salt and fruit and even a bit of sand, and felt warm and sweet against his body. Brandon felt her hand snake down between them to take him in hand. He hardens fully at her touch, filling her warm palm.

His hands were clutching at her rump and his he was halfway in her when the door flew open. "Bran, would you please get up and-- oh." Brandon's eyes flew open as they locked with Benjen's frozen form in the doorway. Ashara too looked toward him, but didn't seem too scandalised. She giggled, then rolled off him. "S-Sorry my lady, and er, Bran..." He didn't even bother to finish the sentence before bounding off, slamming the door behind him.

Brandon groaned at the interruption. He was still hard as a rock, yet Ashara had already slipped out of bed.

"Do you suppose that was your brother's first time looking upon a woman?" She asked as she combed through her glossy black hair with her fingers. "He was your brother, wasn't he? He had the same look as you and the queen."

"He was," he grumbled, his foul mood upon him again. Gods know this would make the rest of his stay insufferably awkward. "Come back to bed," he urged her as he watched her pull her slip over her head. "He'll not be coming back any time soon."

Ashara chuckles and shakes her head. "I believe that. Yet, I have my own plans for the morning."

Brandon rises from the bed to stand behind her. He pushes down the sleeve of the slip she had just donned down her shoulder, then kissed the bare skin there. She melted quickly in his arms, leaning back against his chest. Her backside pressed on his hard cock, and it takes all of Brandon's restraint not to moan.

"And what plans may they be?" He asked, his hand settling over her middle.

Her hands closed over his. "A bath, certainly," she said with a grin. "I'm to break fast with the queen, after all. I can't show up smelling like a sweaty northman and looking as if I'd been plowed by one too."

Brandon laughs, then squeezes her against him. "I'd say you have no fear of that. It's nearly midday by now; that breakfast is done." Even with the shades closed, Brandon knew the time of day. It was a habit he'd picked up in his hunts. "Which means _you_ can spend the rest-- ah gods, I've that bloody council meeting to get to." His cock deflates immediately at the reminder. With a sigh and a grunt of displeasure, Brandon fishes for his smallclothes amongst his twisted sheets. Gods, he could hardly stand to look at Rhaegar's icy face for any longer than he had to; this damnable council meeting would surely send Brandon to Flea Bottom straight after for some form of excitement: _How Lya can bear a man with ice in his veins, I cannot say..._

When he glances back at his lover, he finds her frozen, with a stricken expression on her face. "I _missed_ it?" She asked, her voice thin. She rushed to the window to throw open the drapes, then slumps as the light midday sun poured into the room. "Oh no, no, no, then I've left poor Elia for those shadowcats to claw at her. She must be wondering where I am now." He watched her lean over to pick up her dress on the floor, and noted how her form slumped when he found the tear in the front. "You ruined my gown," she said flatly, looking to him with large, sad eyes.

"Sorry," he mumbled in return, pulling his smallclothes on. "I'll buy you another, if you'd like."

She shook her head. "It doesn't matter. I've let Elia down, and the very thought weighs heavy on my heart." She sighed then tugged on her gown. The front of her slip showed through the tear, including her round nipples that pushed through the thin fabric. "For what it's worth, I do not regret the night before," she admits, looking up at him to give him a small smile.

"Nor I," Brandon said. How could he? A beautiful woman who was skilled in bed spent a night with him; and he didn't have to cough up a single coin for it.

She strides over to him and presses her palms to the muscles of his stomach. Then he stood on her toes and pressed a kiss to his lips. Brandon took the opportunity to deepen the peck into something slow, and strong, and sweet. She sighed into his mouth by the end of it.

“‘Tis a pity that you’re married,” she said. “A man like you has no use for such a leash.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you.” Marriage, and what came with it, went against his very nature. Brandon was not one for nurturing or providing, nor was he one for routine and stagnation. Yet just because this was the lot he was given in life did not mean he had to subscribe to it. 

“Of course you are,” she returned in a tone he could not ascertain. Her body slinks away from him to make toward the door. “If I return tonight, will you be here?”

Brandon scratched at the stubble of his beard. Another night with her was tempting; as was a night of drinking with his men. “No, I should think not.” 

Her smile falters then, but she keeps her air of aloofness about her. “Is this goodbye, then?”

“Goodbyes are so terribly final,” he said with a sly grin. “If the gods will it, we will meet again.”

“Your gods, or mine?” Her backwards glance reveals nothing, and she disappears from the doorway completely.

 _Did I upset her?_ He wondered briefly. He had a good habit of upsetting women. _Well, none shall be more upset than Lya if she learns that I came into that bloody meeting late._ His sister’s wrath, he knew, was something certainly worth avoiding.


	4. iv - truth and lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna learns her husband's secret.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm back. The semester ended, and I walked away with all As, so this hiatus from writing was worth it. I'm going to try to write as much as I can during my break. Hope my rustiness isn't too apparent!
> 
> Thanks for your patience! :)

The supper that was had that night allowed Lyanna to separate herself from the ladies she had broken fast with this morning-- a respite she did not know she needed. Lyanna had often been forced into social situations since she had taken her first mantle up as princess, yet this particular encounter exhausted her.

She did not even mind her husband's silence toward her as he sat her side. He spoke only to those who wished conversation with him, yet otherwise remained silent. When the time came to announce the positions on the small council, it was the hand of the king, Jon Connington, who delivered it to the crowd. Rhaegar sat and stared.

Lyanna soon thereafter saw the little ones to bed before setting off to her own. She'd brushed off the attempts of her ladies to help her prepare for bed; instead, Lyanna saw to it that servants prepared her a bath. Once stripped and settled into it, she drew a heavy, long-trapped sigh.

 _My head aches,_ she complains internally as a sharp throbbing begins in her temple. _I shall not have another gathering such as that one for a long, long time..._

The warm waters of the bath, along with her own exhaustion, saw Lyanna off to the beginnings of sleep-- interrupted by the sound of the door to her chambers opening. She opened one eye to see Rhaegar entered, and lowered in a chair as he pulled off his boots.

Lyanna stirs herself awake, sitting up straighter in the bath. The noise of splashing water draws his attention quickly.

"You're awake," he states softly. "I was about to carry you from that bath and let you sleep in your bed." 

Lyanna shakes her head, and thus the sleep from her eyes. "No, no. I did not intend to sleep before I shared words with you." She smiled lazily, rubbing the back of her neck where the edge of the tub had dug into it. "How did your council go?"

He gives a half-shrug as he pulled off his last boot. "As well as those matters are expected to go," he said with a measure of tension in his voice. "I was mostly successful."

She chuckles at the turn of phrase. It was difficult imagining Rhaegar being only _mostly_ successful. She awaits for him to return an inquiry, but instead sees him rise from his seat to peel off his doublet. He opens the collar of the shirt underneath, removes the ribbon that tied back his long silver hair, and makes his way to the side of the tub. He kneels beside it, then finds the cloth she had been washing with before she drifted off to sleep. He was a lovely sight for sore eyes, to be sure, but she did not care for silent admiring at the moment.

"Don't you wish to know how my morning went?" She asked mildly, her smile wavering upon her face.

"Oh," he said sheepishly enough. "How did your breakfast go?"

She treats his brusqueness in kind: "Well enough. Though not without its casualties."

“It never is.” He brings the washcloth to her shoulder, softly scrubbing at the skin there. She stares at him in silence, wondering what it was that made him so mild. As soon as the thought appears, her answer comes: “There is something you must know.”

Lyanna stiffens, finding his tone immediately uncomfortable. She crosses her arms over her chest and pulls away when he reached to wash her again. “What is it?” A hundred scenarios ran through her head, from the mild to the monstrous. Did one of the men promise troubles? Did the council not go as well as he said? Was there something awful asked of him?

“Elia Martell-- she dined with you this morning, I know. There is something you must know about she and I.” His words steel her further, though his tone is soft and kind. Thoughts of the quiet Dornishwoman come swimming up to the surface of her mind, of her talks of a son and her duties. A lump forms in Lyanna’s throat.

“Tell me,” she asks sharply of him. “What is there to know?” Her hands have found the edge of the tub and gripped them firmly. Rhaegar’s eyes land softly upon them; he moves to hold her fingers. 

“While I had been in Dorne, she and I had struck up a companionship,” he admitted in a low voice. “It became something that had become a little more than such; a brief romance, and quickly forgotten.” He pauses, perhaps to await her reaction. Lyanna finds her tongue heavy in her mouth, and her mind quiet. He take the opportunity to continue. “It did not go so far as consummation, however. I swear to you it did not.”

Lyanna draws her knees to her chest and hugs them, drawing her hand out of his grasp. “Why are you telling me this now?” She asked quietly, her mind still piecing his words together. 

“She seems to have given birth to a child-- and I would have you know before rumor arises, that it is not mine.” He sighed then, and cups the side of her face. “I swear this on my life. Her brother Oberyn seems to have an idea that it is mine-- the child is violet-eyed, he says. He asks for me to discover the identity of the boy’s father, and I mean to do so.”

Lyanna cannot even look at him; she stares forward, past her knees to a spot on the wall. _Rhaegar left Dorne nearly a year ago,_ she thinks to herself. _A whole year, and now he comes and tells me._ Apart from this sorrow, a rage began to simmer in her. Her whole body tenses, and she looks to him with a glare.

“Did you ever intend on telling me this? Or is it fear for your reputation that pushes you into this confession?” Her tone and tongue are acrid, and her body begins to tremble. _All this time…_

“The opportunity never arose,” he offers weakly in his defense. “Nor did I find it appropriate to confess this so soon after you had left childbed--”

“That was a _year_ ago, Rhaegar!” She returned loudly. “Moon after moon has passed, and you spoke nothing of this.” _And here I had been, cringing at every mention of Robert Baratheon,_ the thought arrived rudely. Her skin burns at the memory. “You let me feel guilt and shame for being driven into another's arms. You let me feel unworthy of you who remained ever faithful while you-- You!” She rises from the water with a splash, climbing out of the tub on uncertain legs. She snatches at her robe and pulls it on, neglecting to close the tie. When she has turned around again, she finds her husband standing by the tub, looking surprised. “You _let_ me!” Her hands ball into angry fists that she wanted nothing more than to rain down on his chest. Instead, shame and rage have her trembling and wanting to tear at her own skin.

“I did no more with Elia than you did with Robert,” he reminded her ungently, uncouthly.

“But you _knew_! You knew of it before I had even known what to make of it! Yet I had known that such a thing was impossible to hide from you, here under your own roof. You went a thousand miles south, hid it from me, and never whispered a word of it.” Her eyes stung with tears unbidden, but she would not let them fall. Rhaegar had seen her resolve weakened far too many times; this time, she would not allow him to provide comfort.

“You are right,” he admitted softly, his fire from before quickly snuffed. “I should have told you. This was poorly done.”

“Poorly done!” She scoffs, feeling her cheeks grow red. “You hid this from me when I have hidden nothing from you. That is not poorly done; it is cruel." He steps forward as Lyanna takes a step backward, her back meeting the wall. "Now you tell me of this babe and swear it is not yours. Am I meant to believe that this too is not a secret of yours?"

"It is not mine, I swear it to you," he promised, closing the gap between them. His hands slipped into her open robe to cradle her hips. "This body is the only one I have ever known."

If he had been trying to win her over by seduction, he failed. Lyanna spun out of his grip and continued to glare to him. "I don't care," she said, half-hissing. "I would have allowed a hundred bastards in the age when we were unkind with each other. When you returned from Dorne, you promised honesty in all things. This matter never left your lips before now." She squeezed her eyes shut as the memory of that morning had come to mind. _I defended her. I broke my fast with her, and I never knew._ But it was not Elia's fault; it was not her duty to speak of this truth. "Go.”

She does not open her eyes to gauge his reaction. “You wish me to go?”

“Go now.” She said between gritted teeth. “I cannot bear the sight of you.”

It is not until after he leaves that she opened her eyes again. Her mind was inclined to imagine Rhaegar and Elia together, intimately, but veers towards another: Jon. _If Elia’s bastard is his, then he threatens my son._ The thought angers her more than that of an affair. _I will have the truth on this. A truth that I discover for myself._


	5. v - truths and lies, pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna seeks out her options.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the delay. Those of you noted that the last chapter was rather short, and that's because it was meant to be a much longer chapter, the rest of which I'm posting now. :) Enjoy!

The black rage she had been afflicted with the night before prevented Lyanna from getting very much sleep at all. She had tossed and turned the whole night, thinking and seething and planning. When morning came, one thing remained unchanged: she was hurt. Rhaegar had been thoughtless and heartless to keep such a thing from her, and stupid too if he thought she would receive the information unphased. No doubt he hoped for her to swallow his words without a hitch, then return to being his sweet meek wife.

Did he truly not realize the position he had put her in? To leave her wondering what more was hidden, what was truth and what was not-- How was she to know if that child truly wasn’t his own? He had struck doubt into her heart, then expected her to take his words for true. Lyanna could not abide by that; he had burned her once, but if she was to be burned again, t’would be better that she held the brand.

She rose from her bed tired and irritable, shrugging off Jude as she tried to help her get dressed. “I can dress myself,” she snapped at her serving girl. “I’m tired of being treated like I’m stupid. I’m not a child!” The poor woman had backed off wordlessly, prompting Lyanna to sigh and apologize. “I should not have yelled. I’m not angry with you.”

“Can I do anything for her grace?” Jude asked with a soft smile.

Lyanna shook her head. “I just want to dress myself and see my son. That is all.”

That much she was able to accomplish. Jon clung to her skirts as he walked beside her, with Viserys was not far behind, holding Daenerys in his arms. Her ladies trailed after her like a flock of hens. Among them, Lyanna found, was Lady Cersei, already occupying her new office as lady-in-waiting to the queen.

Back in her antechambers, her original ladies seemed to sense there was something amiss. Emeline Hardy folded and unfolded her hands in her lap. Isabel Farring chewed her lower lip expectantly. Cedany Byrch even seemed to tremble as she eyed her.

Lyanna kissed the top of Jon’s head, and watched him bounce over to his aunt and uncle for play. Jude was nearby, with her own dark-haired Ellya sleeping in her arms. The girl was looking more and more like Robert by the day.

“Well,” Lyanna said, blinking as Cedany jumped in her seat. “You all are my eyes and ears in the court-- and I hear there’s been gossip.”

Her three ladies nodded their heads simultaneously; Cersei Lannister smiled.

“You know how it is, when so many important people gather at once…” Emeline began.

“Yes, yes. A lot of rumors, a lot of empty talk…” Cedany continued, her cheeks grow pink.

“ _Very_ empty, your grace. Practically baseless,” Isabel finished.

“Not so empty, surely,” Cersei said, still smiling. “They say for every rumor there is a grain of truth to be had.”

Lyanna fixed her eyes on Cersei. “What have you heard, Lady Cersei?”

“Many things,” Cersei responded mysteriously. “I was wondering what it was that kept Lady Ashara from your breakfast, for instance. I heard an interesting report of how she was found leaving the chambers of a… guest of honor.”

Lyanna furrowed her brows. “Who?” She asked. Cersei seemed to have picked up plenty of secrets beyond this one, and she aimed to hear every detail.

“Forgive me, your grace, but they say it was your brother’s chambers that she was leaving. In a torn dress, no less.”

There was no need for clarification on which brother. _Brandon, you fool. You’ve a wife heavy with your child at home and you--_ Just thinking those words made her think of another husband who found comfort in the arms of a woman who wasn’t his pregnant wife. Her cheeks color at the reminder.

“Did you all hear this too?” Lyanna asked of her other ladies, swallowing her embarrassment at the last second. They all nodded slowly, then glanced back to Cersei. She was a powerful ally, Lyanna was beginning to realize. The woman was from a strong house, of fine breeding, beautiful, and evidently rather practiced in courtly affairs. “Did you… did you happen to hear anything about Elia’s child?” The word “bastard” was on the tip of her tongue, but she was shy to say it while Jude was in the room cradling Robert Baratheon’s illegitimate child to her breast.

Cersei made a sympathetic face. “I did,” she admitted. “It is being much whispered. Although the boy has been kept out of sight, many have heard, and tongues wag… Perhaps one of you ladies may want to say what you’ve heard? I may add whatever you have missed.” Her green-eyed gaze swept over the other three, who stiffened immediately. 

The women appeared to be visibly uncomfortable at this request. They respected Lyanna; they were her friends, and they did not want to upset her. Lyanna could not help but wonder how many vile whispers she’d missed as her ladies looked out for her feelings. The notion of being treated like a child again made her furious; she dug her nails into her palms to keep from raising her voice. “ _Tell me,_ ” she demanded.

“The child is certainly a bastard, your grace,” Emeline said, her eyes flitting between Cersei and Lyanna. “Whose bastard, no one is quite sure, for the woman has not said.” She looked to Cedany now, perhaps hoping the pink-faced lady might finish the sentiment.

“The child is always away in her chamber, your grace,” Cedany interjected in a high, trembling voice.

“No one even knows what he looks like,” Isabel added, saving her friend from losing her voice entirely. It was clear through their behavior just what kind of rumors they had been hearing. 

“I’ve seen the child,” Cersei said, looking to the other women with a hint of pride.

“What does he look like?” Lyanna asked quickly. Rhaegar had offered so little detail beyond that of his confession that she was left with only her imagination. She had imagined a boy in his likeness; fair skin, silver hair, dark purple eyes. Doing so made her blood boil and her heart ache.

“The bastard has dark skin and hair like his Dornish mother,” Cersei noted, wrinkling her nose in what seemed like disgust. “His eyes, however, are purple.”

Lyanna felt her breath leave her body. “Purple,” she repeated, her voice hardly above a whisper. _Did you lie to me, Rhaegar? Why? Why?_ There were not enough violet-eyed men in the realm to strike a shadow of a doubt in her heart. If the child was as Cersei claimed, then it had to be Rhaegar’s. It simply had to be.

She felt a hand cover hers, which had unwittingly balled into a fist above the table. Lyanna listlessly looks to Isabel, whose eyes had grown to the size of saucers. “Your grace, perhaps Lady Cersei has it wrong. Perhaps they were only a very bright blue?”

“Yes, yes,” Emeline added, nodding. “The light often plays tricks on us. There were many times I had looked at his grace’s eyes and saw them as blue instead of purple-- not that I have stared, your grace.”

“I know what I saw,” Cersei defended herself, green eyes (and they were most certainly green) narrowing dangerously. “I looked upon the boy. You three did not.”

“It does not matter,” Lyanna whispered hoarsely, pulling her hand from her grasp. “It all makes sense. The dates add up.” Her head snapped up to look between the four of them. She was surprised at her own calm, but not for long. She had far too many questions to dwell. “How long have these rumors persisted? How strong is the belief in them?”

“Only since the Dornish whore arrived, your grace,” Cersei said, cutting off Isabel who had opened her mouth to speak. “If I were you, I would see her out of your castle. Her presence is an insult that oughtn’t be tolerated.”

Lyanna looks to her curiously. The idea was a delicious one; to turn Elia and her son out of her house would be more than fair. After all, why should she extend courtesy to a woman who has known her husband with the same intimacy as a wife? A woman who had given him a child, as she had?

“My lady mother would have seen her out,” Cersei continued, her face a mask of disgust. “It is best to deal with such distasteful matters swiftly, and to make an example of it.”

Lyanna opened her mouth to respond, but closed it to consider it once more. _Is this what I want?_ She asked herself. _Do I want her gone so swiftly?_

“Perhaps there’s another explanation,” Cedany murmured, finally finding her voice again. “Perhaps there’s more… Dorne is so large, your grace. Those of Old Valyria had surely made their homes there once…”

“Old Valyria has been gone for thousands of years,” Cersei snapped at her, causing her round face to turn pink again. “The answer lies before us.”

“No, she is right,” Lyanna said, feeling deflated. “I _must_ learn more.”

 _It is not as satisfying as revenge, but I am queen now._ To pander to her bitter jealousies without standing on truths would reflect poorly on her. She tried to imagine what Rhaella would have done, as she had on many occasions since she filled her office. She struggled to imagine the good queen publicly humiliating a woman while the lords and ladies of the realm were all gathered-- a lady, no less. _I want to be a good queen,_ Lyanna thought. _And perhaps a good queen would handle this quietly._

“Your grace, she may be gone before you search for more,” Cersei warned, fire in her eyes. She was rather passionate about this subject, in a way that Lyanna did not expect. “Tongues wag even now. It is best to put out a fire quickly rather than let it burn.”

“Perhaps you’re right, but this is how I must do it,” Lyanna replied, frowning. “If I toss her out, then I confirm what everyone is thinking. It does not bring me joy to continue this, but I fear I shall be more unhappy if I go about it another way.”

“If you let that woman stay, then you encourage other women to seduce your husband,” Cersei noted none too kindly. Her words prodded her in the chest like the tip of a sharp knife. “You let others whisper so loudly that this woman bore the king’s bastard.”

“That woman is a princess in her land, and my husband is the king,” Lyanna returned sharply. Cersei’s words made her feel meek and stupid. Lyanna was the queen, and yet in this she had no choice, no control. Her voice turned small as she murmured, “It is not so simple.”

Cersei had no reply to this. She continued to pin Lyanna with what almost seemed to be a glare, lips pressed together in disapproval. Lyanna itched to retract what she said to earn her approval again; she ached for some satisfaction in this, but she couldn’t do it-- Not like this.

Righting herself once more, Lyanna straightened her back and raised her chin. _I am a Stark, and my blood raised me to be bold._ “Lady Ashara is a friend of Elia’s, yes?” She looked to the other three ladies, finding their soft gazes much more welcoming.

“She is, your grace,” Emeline replied.

“I will start there, then. It appears I know someone who knows her well.” Lyanna rose, prepared to make an exit. The others followed, curtseying as they saw her off. As Lyanna was turning away, someone made a grab at her elbow. She looked back to see Cersei gripping her arm, eyes narrowed.

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing, your grace?” Cersei asked, still disapproving. “Shall I come along with you?”

Lyanna shook her head. “I must do this myself, Lady Cersei.”

The golden haired women held her for a moment longer before letting her go. “As you wish, your grace.”

Her voice made Lyanna shiver.  
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It was Lyanna who went to Brandon’s chambers rather than the other way around. Tt had felt wrong to call him to her rooms again, as she did the first day. As stupid as he was, he was still her older brother, and she his little sister. When she came to him, he was still asleep. She had rolled her eyes and told him to wake up, which he responded to with a groan and mumble that he needed to get dressed. Not wanting to find out what level of dress Brandon slept in, she retreated to his antechambers and began to pace the room in anticipation. Pacing at her side was Jon, who looked up at his mother with round, curious eyes.

Lyanna heard the door to the bedchamber open and whirled around. When Jon saw Brandon come toward them he inched a little closer to Lyanna, not yet used to the man he was told to call uncle.

Brandon give a playful laugh as he picked Jon off his feet, raising him over his head and onto his shoulders. Jon twisted his hands in his uncle’s thick hair to keep from falling, not quite trusting him either. Brandon didn’t seem to mind, grinning broadly as he looked up at his nephew. Once his eyes fell upon his sister’s dark gaze, however, the smile quickly vanished.

“What did I do?” He asked dumbly.

“It’s not _what_ you did, but _who_ ,” Lyanna returned, eyes narrowed. She lowered herself onto a nearby couch and glowered at him from her perch. “Brandon, you are much too old and much too married to be seeing other women to your bed! Barbrey is at home, carrying your child--”

He gave a dramatic groan. “I don’t need this from you,” he grumbled, reaching up to carry Jon back down. “I thought you were here to see me, not scold me.” Back on his feet, Jon pulled himself onto his mother’s lap.

“I _am_ here to see you,” Lyanna relented with a sigh. She rubbed her eyes, feeling tired already from this rather brief argument. “Brandon, you must help me.”

Brandon’s glare softened at her words. He sighed too, then flopped down beside her. He turned halfway to analyze her expression, and appeared none too pleased with his result. He always knew how to read her quicker than anyone else. It was part of the connection they shared, one that their father insisted was a result of their wolf-bloodedness. _It’ll drive you both to an early grave if you’re not careful,_ her father used to say.

Brandon had straightened with his shoulders pushed back, looking much like an animal on his haunches. “Are you alright?” He asked in a growl, as if ready to find the one who’d pained her so and meet them with closed fists.

“I’m just tired,” she admitted. Being beside her brother like this made her want to cry; she bit back the tears, choosing instead to lean onto him. He wound an arm around her shoulders to pull her closer, kissing the top of her head as he did. Jon was caught in the middle of this, wiggling to indicate his discomfort. When the two moved apart to free him, he hopped off her lap and opted instead for a seat beside his mother.

“It’s too much,” she said, hating how thin her voice sounded. “Being a queen is too much. I need you to do something for me, please.”

Brandon did not hesitate to nod. “Tell me, then.”

“I know it sounds strange, but I need you to meet with Lady Ashara again. I need you to ask her something-- it has to be you, I cannot do it.”

He made a face somewhere between confusion and horror. “Lya, you were just shouting at me for seeing other women,” he reminded her, sounding a little amused.

“I know,” she huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. “I am not saying lie with her-- but I do need you to get close. Close enough to ask a few questions. Please?”

Brandon clucked his tongue. “You are wicked, little sister. What’s in that pretty head of yours?”

_A lot. More than you can ever know._

“I just need some questions answered. Tell me you’ll do it for me.”

“She was fond enough of me, and if it’s a night like the one before...” he said before being cut off by a punch to his arm. He laughed, then grinned his roguish grin. “What is it that you need to know?”

Lyanna told him, trying her best to be as simple and as vague as possible in how she approached it. She never used Rhaegar’s name, instead making it about her own curiosity instead. She knew Brandon paid no mind to gossip, nor would anyone dare to whisper to him hints that may reveal the true intention behind her inquiries. In the end, Brandon did not fully understand her concern, but agreed to try-- no promises, however.

As she left his chambers, she passed Ser Jonothor at the door.


	6. vi - fallen star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia does what she came to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Sorry for the delay. I'm slowly completing my two other most requested "please finish this" fics, A King's Attentions and I'll Set You Apart. Hopefully I finish both within the next couple weeks, so I can concentrate on my two current writing projects (this one and Amidst the Ashes, which is going to have a sequel).
> 
> Also, keep an eye out for a totally different fic coming up sometime in the near future! It's actually going to be pretty different from my usual stuff. I can't wait to start on it myself.
> 
> Oh, and get ready for the Winterfell squad to reappear!
> 
> Enjoy!

Elia Martell was not deaf. She heard the whispers beginning to permeate this court of vipers, and even if she did not hear them, she could feel the heat of the many, many stares. Coming here was a mistake, but Elia had known that before she departed Dorne. She had come here to do one thing, to visit just this once, and then she would leave. Her reputation would be in ruins before that would happen, but she did not care. She had a life of her own now, and it all waited in Dorne.

Arranging a meeting was the most difficult and time-consuming matter. Arthur was a busy man, and these were busy times. He had many duties to perform, duties she did not doubt he pursued with a passion as strong as the one he had revealed to her. There was the king to guard, the queen to mind, the prince to supervise, and the castle to secure. His life belonged to them, and Elia knew that. She did not ask for anything more than his ear, for he had a right to know the truth from her lips and no one else’s.

Ashara had said that he could get away tonight-- not for long, he had told her, not more than an hour. He was under the impression that Ashara would be with them, but Elia begged her to see him alone. It was not in an attempt to keep her secret; even without hearing her confession, Elia sensed that her dearest friend already knew the truth. Privacy was what she desired, and a selfish moment of intimacy between mother, father, and son. If that could not be had, then Elia would accept whatever emotion Arthur hurled at her while they were alone. If he raged, she would let him rage. If he fell into silence, she would accept it with open arms.

She sat by the window with Lewyn cradled to her chest. He was halfway between sleep and the waking world, dark purple eyes blinking lazily as he teetered between the two. The Tyrell woman had called him a bastard, practically spitting the word as if it was a dirty thing caught between her teeth. She said it as if the word should have cut Elia, yet it did not. He was a bastard, to be sure. It did not make him any less her son.

Two knocks came at her door. Elia rises too quickly, and she has to pause to fend off the wave of dizziness that struck her. After heaving a sigh, she pulls her robe tighter around her waist and gently readjusts Lewyn in her arms. She takes slow, careful steps to the door, partially for her own health and partially to collect herself before she let Arthur know the truth. 

She attempts a smile as she opened the door, trying her best to seem undaunted by her own worry. In return, she is greeted with Arthur’s furrowed brows and his white armor, glowing in the dark night. He was no less handsome from when she had last seen him, and no less troubled. It was difficult to know that she would trouble him again-- but it was not too late. Perhaps a different excuse could be wrought…

_No. You must tell him. You owe him that._

“Good evening, Arthur,” Elia greeted him warmly, smiling a little more genuinely now.

“Good evening, princess,” he returned softly, his purple eyes flitting down to Lewyn at her chest. Even in this darkness she could see his face grow pale. 

“I hope you have been doing well since I last saw you,” Elia said in an effort to distract him. She pulls him into the room by his armored arm, and he listlessly accepts the tug. “You have been busy ever since I arrived in King’s Landing. Ashara even tells me you couldn’t see her until the day before.”

His lips part but no words escape. His gaze was still entirely focused on Lewyn who was now looking up at this stranger with half-lidded eyes. Without sparing another word, Arthur strides over to her bedside to pick up the burning candle that rested there, then returned to her. The light falls upon the babe’s face, revealing eyes of dark lilac, eyes of the First Men, eyes of Arthur Dayne.

Something Elia had never seen in him before jumps to face now: panic, in its most somber form. She reaches forward to cup his cheek, but he flinches away with watery eyes.

“He is mine,” he said in a thin, wavering voice. “Isn’t he?”

This was not as she planned it. In her panic, a thought came to her that begged her to deny it. Say no, tell him he is another man’s, tell him he was the castellan’s, or a travelling Lyseni, or Rhaegar, even. Elia knew he would not breathe a word of it to anyone no matter the circumstances, but if he were Rhaegar’s, then surely his lips would stay sealed. He would hate her, perhaps, but he would not hate himself.

Yet Elia did not come all this way to hide the truth. Thus when he asked, she nodded. A moment passes where it seemed as if Arthur would be enraged-- the very slightest hint of a burning, unrelenting fire behind his eyes, before it was snuffed out entirely. What was left behind in its place was something she never wished for him to feel: shame. She watched this bull of a man crumble, watched as his shoulders slumped and his head bowed, and he turned his face away from her.

“Arthur, listen to me,” she commands softly of him, reaching out again to touch his cheek; this time, he accepts her hand, but not her voice.

“Tell me what I must do,” he demands of her in a desperate tone, his hand reaching up to grip her wrist. When his eyes met hers they were wide with fear, shame, anger, sorrow. “How can this be put to rights? You are a princess, and I am-- I am only a knight. I took a vow-- take no wife, hold no lands, father no children--” At the utterance of those words, his voice slipped away.

“I ask for nothing, dear Arthur,” Elia murmured as soothing as she can, her thumb brushing the side of his stubbled cheek. “Nothing at all. This is our secret. It is what I wanted, and I wished for you to know that.”

“A secret I ought to die for,” he rasped in return, shaking his head. “I will go to Rhaegar tomorrow. I will confess to this and take the black, or the axe, whatever it is that I deserve.”

“Why, my dearest friend?” Elia asked, taken aback by the deterioration of his confidence. “Is this such an offense that the gods will strike you down for it?”

“I took a vow--”

“Words are wind, and you are more than your vows, Ser Arthur Dayne,” Elia said firmly. She wrenched her wrist out of his grasp so she may turn his face toward her son. “Look at what you have helped create. Do you not believe I wanted this?”

“ _Want_ this?” He echoed, furrowing his brows in confusion. “Without a marriage, without a house for him to inherit, without-- How could you _want_ this?” Sweet, honorable Arthur could not understand why she want something that appeared to be more of a burden than a blessing-- and how could she blame him? By all means, this ought to have been something worth avoiding. Instead she had wanted this-- selfishly wanted this.

“It was a choice I made for myself,” Elia replied. “Marriage is what my mother wanted for me. When she gave me a choice in my husband, I did not want one. When she removed choice and told me I must marry the prince, I said I would. When the prince was no longer mine to marry, I saw no reason to find another man. I am complete without one.” It was the truth. Rhaegar had been a dalliance, a welcome distraction in Dorne, but one that ultimately amounted to nothing. Arthur had been noble and gentle and so very tragic in his love-- but he could never be hers, nor would she wish him to be. Romance had no place in her life. The love she had to give was not one she wished to give to a man she would call husband or lover. The love that burned in her was that of a mother’s-- and as cruel as it was, she had used him to help her meet that purpose.

“You have given to me the greatest gift that anyone may ever give,” she continued, smiling softly. “You gave me a child to love. That is what I wanted. That is all I ever wanted.” The truth seemed to splash him like a bucket of cold water; he stiffened and shook off her hand, his eyes as wide as a newborn foal. “It was not a fair exchange, I know. I’m sorry, Arthur.”

He face became unreadable. What struggles passed through his mind, Elia could not understand them. All he did was avoid her face and look down at Lewyn’s, the eyes of the father meeting the eyes of the son. Even in this tender moment, Elia finds a reason to be relieved: _He may love him, but he cannot claim him._ Had Rhaegar given into her affections in Dorne, had this child been a dragon instead, Lewyn would never be wholly hers. Her son would be a child caught between two parents, two worlds, and bound not to his mother’s fate, but his father’s. Rhaegar was the king, after all. One word and a bastard of his would remain at his side forever.

“Was this the favor, then?” Arthur asked hoarsely, still avoiding her eye. “In Dorne-- In Dorne you told me I would be granting you a favor. I did not understand it then.”

Elia nodded. “As I said, it was a favor I could not repay.”

“He has made you glad,” he said, nodding toward his child. “I do not regret that. Yet I cannot remain silent.”

Elia furrowed her brows, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“I swore a holy vow.” He was repeating himself. “I cannot remain a knight. I must tell the king.”

Panic pricks Elia’s heart hard enough to make her swoon. She reaches out to Arthur to balance herself, and to simply take hold of him. “You cannot do that. You cannot endanger us by telling the king.” Rumors were wildfires that would always persist with some version or another of who this child’s father is, but once a fact was uttered and made known, the fire would never burn out. Elia could not-- _would_ not have that.

“I’ll not whisper your name or his,” Arthur returned. “I will leave and take the black, and that shall be the end of it. I ought to have done it the day I arrived in King’s Landing after leaving Dorne.”

“Do you mean to say your king is more righteous than you, or more deserving?” Elia asked, her panic quickly turning into vexation. “Your king was in my arms while his wife carried and birthed his child thousands of miles away. Is he more righteous simply because he did not lay with me?”

“He did not swear a vow,” he responded weakly.

“He swore one to his wife, I am sure,” Elia said hotly. “A holy vow as well. I wonder if your king even met his wife with honesty about what had transpired between the two of us, seeing how kind she was to me the other morn. I wonder if he considered her feelings or simply lied to her instead.” She let out a grand sigh, trying to calm herself as Lewyn began to squirm against her chest. Her child let out a few noises of discomfort before falling silent once she pressed a kiss to his smooth forehead. “Did I not tell you that you are a man with honor?” She said in a softer, somber tone. “That such a thing is a part of you, that it cannot be taken away from you?”

“Then confessing this shall not strip me of honor either,” Arthur murmured. To her surprise, he extended a hand so his finger may brush the side of Lewyn’s cheek. The touch only lasted moments before he pulled away as if he had been burned. “I know you will raise him well.”

His words sounded like goodbye. It should not have pained her-- it should not have made her feel a thing, for this conversation was always meant to be goodbye. What she did not expect, however, was to hurt him so.

“Should I have kept it a secret?” Elia asks in a small voice. “Should I have never told you?” She thought he deserved to know the truth, but now it seemed a greater mercy to lie.

He smiled, but it was a smile full of sorrow. He finally raised his eyes to her, and as poignant as they were, they lifted her spirits. “You said I have given you a gift. I would not have wanted to live and die thinking I gave you nothing.”

“Then you shall let me live and die thinking the same?”

“You have given me more than I could have ever hoped. I have loved you, Elia.”

_Oh, Arthur. I wish I could say the same._

He could not help himself, and Elia did not fault him. He leaned in, brushed her cheek, and kissed her lips ever so briefly. Before he left, he glanced down at her child-- _their_ child, but he did not touch him. Perhaps it was too great a risk to accidentally love what he had created. Perhaps he did not love him at all. Either way, Elia did not blame him.

She lies awake in the empty room, Lewyn sleeping beside her on the bed. When the door opens, she knows it is Ashara who slips in. Her warm body falls in behind her, and she wraps an arm around Elia’s middle to squeeze her hand.

“We cannot stay long here,” Ashara whispers into her hair, echoing her own thoughts. “Brandon has asked about you.”

Elia blinks, confused. She shook thoughts of Arthur away as she turned to look over at her friend. “Brandon Stark? You saw him again?”

Ashara nods. “Only briefly. He asked to see me. I thought it was to bed me, but no man who wishes to go bed speaks so much, much less asks after another woman.”

“What did he ask?”

“He wished to know more about the rumor that you have brought a babe to King’s Landing.”

Elia’s well of emotion had run too dry for her to be jolted with fear again. She only grimaced, then sighed. “Did you say anything?”

“No, of course not. I do not know the man well but I know he is too stupid for gossip. I do not think he asks this out of simple curiosity. Someone has sent him; I’m certain you can guess who.”

 _The queen._ Who else but the Stark girl who had appeared to be so blessedly innocent and cursedly young? A queen like that was doomed to be clumsy in her inquiries and quick with her emotions. No doubt by now she had heard the dark rumors swirling about at court, of her and the king and a babe…

“I will leave as soon as I can; tomorrow, if I can help it.” It would be best to leave this city and all its darkness behind as soon as possible; better still if she could leave before Arthur confessed.

Thinking of him again while sitting nose-to-nose with his sister made her heart ache. She laid a hand upon Ashara’s cheek, smiling weakly as she did. Her friend only looked to her with wide, curious eyes.

 _My dear Ashara, what will you do when you hear what I did to your brother? Will you leave me too?_ Elia deserved some punishment, perhaps, but this one would hurt more than she could bear.

“I will leave with you, of course,” Ashara whispered, smiling in a way that was surely meant to bolster her spirits. “I don’t care much for this city, to tell you the truth. The smell is awful and the men are even worse.”

Elia chuckled. “Then we shall return to fragrant Dorne and its Dornishmen on the morrow.”

Ashara laughed and squeezed her before resting her head on her shoulder. Sleep came easy to her that night, as Elia observed. Even Lewyn slept for most of the night, waking only once to be fed. Elia, however, remained awake. For after this night, after King’s Landing, her life would begin. There would be no more secrets, no more regrets, no more debts. Just a life to live on her own terms, and a chance to create her own happiness.

What kept her up was Arthur Dayne, and the torment she saw in his eyes.

 _Forgive yourself,_ she wanted to run and tell him. _If the gods shall not forgive you, then you must._


	7. vii - fear is for the winter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winter has come, and death is not far behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Sorry for the delay. I iust need to get over the hump that is midterms and I hope to be more productive afterwards. Enjoy!

“I hate him.”

Catelyn looked up to where Barbrey was pacing, her hands on her back as she carried her swollen belly to and fro. She had been complaining of pains that morning, and Catelyn knew what was soon to follow. She also knew precisely who Barbrey was speaking of.

“You ought to lay down,” Catelyn said, ignoring her remark. She rose to meet Barbrey, gently taking her elbows. “It is very likely the child will come today.”

“It will come today, and it will die,” Barbrey returned quickly. “It will die because he is not here. I hate him, I do.”

“Do not say that,” Catelyn mumbled beneath her breath as she led Barbrey to the nearest chair. The woman lowered herself slowly into it, sighing loudly once she did.

“You do not understand. How could you understand?” Barbrey hissed, clenching her teeth as a wave of pain visibly passed over her. “Your husband may be plain, but he is kind to you and keeps to your bed. He takes interest in his wife and his child instead of riding a thousand miles away to bed southron whores.” She clenched her teeth again, and groaned. “If only _you_ had married Brandon, as the gods intended. Then I could have the kind and ugly Eddard Stark.”

Catelyn ignored her, excusing her harsh words as a side effect of a painful labor. That, and the fact that the early snows had significantly dampened everyone’s spirits-- or perhaps only hers. There was much that Catelyn was still unused to in the North, among them the early and overly-cold onslaught of winter. It was true that she hardly felt it in the castle, and felt it even less in her own chambers-- which Ned had explained was the warmest in Winterfell --but one only needed to look or step outside to be reminded of the sheet of white that blanketed everything.

Back home, the rivers would still be flowing for many more moons to come, and if it was a mild winter, they may even flow until summer came again. Catelyn told herself she must bear this northern winter, as it would be her first and certainly not her last. In time she may even come to find comfort in summer snows and the icicles dangling from the castle.

“What do you suppose he’s doing now? Bedding some southron tart who has forgotten that he’s no longer the heir to Winterfell?” Barbrey continued, her rage still burning strong. “I hope he is. That way when he comes back and learns that our child was born dead, I can say it is his fault. It _is_ his fault.”

Catelyn swallowed an exasperated sigh. Her good-sister wasn’t helping matters of adjustment at all; ever since Brandon and Benjen had left, she had done nothing but complain about everything. She even took to berating Catelyn at times, and sending her off to do her favors as if she were her chambermaid and not the lady of the castle.

 _Lord Stark may still be alive, but I am Lady of Winterfell. Once this woman is rid of her child, I will remind her of that._ For now, she would hold her tongue and be gracious.

“You’re quiet because you know it’s true,” Barbrey snapped, scowling up at her.

“I’m quiet because I want to be civil,” Catelyn returned with a shrug. “You should be quiet too. Once the babe comes you’ll have plenty to gripe about.” She gave Barbrey a tight-lipped smile and squeezed her hand. “I’ll be back.”

Without giving her any time to respond, Catelyn leaves the room, quick to be rid of her. She was not quite sure where she intended to go, other than some room that Barbrey wasn’t in. She had already done her prayers that morning, braving the cold to jog through the snow and into the sept, Ned had left for the day to hunt, and Robb had laid down for a nap. Lyarra had even joined him, though she was outgrowing naps, but the two were as close as brother and sister and the little girl did not mind pretending to slumber beside him.

Catelyn settled for checking with the cooks about dinner arrangements, and asking after what was in storage. If winter was coming, then they would need enough food to last, should it be a hard one. She had even learned that Winterfell’s doors were opened to those who would seek refuge from the cold, and that they were even given hot meals should they need it. In that case, they would need much more than just a castle’s worth of food. Though seeing as the Starks have done this for years and years, she supposed they already knew precisely how much they needed.

The kitchen servants explained to her as much-- all was taken care of, and as long as the men continue hunting regularly during the early moons of winter, there would be enough meat to last as well. Ned had taken a group of men out to the wolfswood only a few days ago to do precisely that, leaving the castle lacking a fair amount of its able-bodied men. Hunting was more than mere sport to northmen, Catelyn learned some time ago. Trophies came second to game, the whole act of it being more of a necessity than a hobby.

Catelyn only remember her father or uncle hunting as a means of distraction. Once her uncle had returned with a large stag whose head he mounted on the wall of his bedchamber, right above the bed. Another time he caught her a live rabbit to keep as a pet. She had named it Florian, and like his namesake, the rabbit proved himself a fool by hopping out of her hands, out the window she was sitting by, and onto the ground several stories below. Her father gave her permission to bury Florian on castle grounds, even sending the septon with her to perform final rites. Thinking back on it now, Catelyn understood what a waste of food and time that was; in Winterfell, it would be more likely that they'd skin and roast Florian on an open fire.

Her time in the North was changing much of how she used to think. The Starks were a different people-- that much Catelyn had learned as she neared a year spent under their roof. Even within the family itself, there was a myriad of people to be seen. Bold Brandon, quiet Ned, thoughtful Benjen… Lyanna, Catelyn knew nothing about save for the fact that she was the queen and loved dearly by her brothers. Lord Rickard was a mystery, but it was clear he commanded his lands justly enough to earn the loyalty of his bannerman.

Shortly after leaving the kitchens, a messenger arrived with news that the men were returning from the hunt, and were an hour's ride away. Her heart swelled with glee at the announcement, and she quickly set to arranging the household to allow the weary men the greatest comforts. She returned to the kitchens to notify the staff of their return, and  for hot meals to be ready upon their arrival. She sent a servant to the stables to have them prepare for the horses, sent word to the junior kennelmaster to prepare for the returning hounds, and had the chambermaids set the mens' rooms in order and draw baths for them as well.

Catelyn herself chose to attend to Ned's room. While she was too busy with the household, her son, and Barbrey to dwell much on his absence, she was always sorely reminded of it for every night she slept alone. It had only been three nights, but even with all the warmth her room offered, she was much warmer at Ned's side. Thus, she saw to it that the furs on his bed were arranged just so, that a fresh candle be place at his bedside, that his writing desk was organized, and sent a servant to prepare a bath for him from the waters of the hot springs.

She had finished in time to find Robb and Lyarra awake from their naps. Their faces were then washed, their clothes changed into something finer, and their hair brushed into something more presentable. Robb had fussed throughout the process, even when she told him that it was his papa they were doing it for.

She had completed all this in time to hear the gatekeeper give a holler, and see the men ride into the courtyard with game thrown over the backs of their horses and in carts. Catelyn remained indoors, with Robb on her hip, still far too unwilling to step out into the snow, even to greet Ned.

"Papa!" Robb had cried when he spotted him at the window, his freshly washed faced breaking into a beam.

"Yes, you silly boy, I had already told you that," Catelyn chided him gently. They watched him dismount and move to heave the game off his horse. He had caught what appeared to be a stag, a few rabbits, and a large bird of some sort, perhaps a pheasant. It was only until after he had seen to everyone else that he moved toward the castle to seek refuge from the cold. 

As Catelyn turn toward the door to greet her husband, a hand grabs her elbow. Irritated at the interruption, Catelyn whirls around and glowers at the offender, finding it to be a servant.

"What do you need?" Catelyn snapped at the girl, who appeared undeterred by her obvious ire.

"Lady Barbrey is entering the birthing chambers. She asks for you, m'lady."

Catelyn swallowed a groan. She glanced between the girl and the door, thinking upon her options. _Ignore her_ , one voice insisted. _You've not seen your husband for days, and she has done nothing but irritate you._

Yet she knew it would be wrong to simply brush her aside when she needed her. Carelyn was more than her good-sister-- she was lady of Winterfell, and just as Ned saw to his men in the courtyard, the women beneath her roof were her concern. If Barbrey asked for her support, she should give it. As a Stark, she must give it. Catelyn knew that, and she cursed herself for it.

"Take him to his father when he arrives," Catelyn commanded of the girl, carefully depositing Robb into her arms. "Tell Lord Eddard I will be away in Lady Barbrey's chambers."  
.  
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Her job was to hold Barbrey’s hand as she tried to soothe her. She screamed and shouted and cursed, proving to everyone in the castle that she had lungs that would put any bard to shame. The process was rather exhausting and hard on her ears, but it only felt natural to assume the role at her bedside while her husband was away. It meant enduring her shouts and groans well into the night, but it was her duty to do so, and her choice as Lady Stark.

That, and a secret desire to prove herself as something other than the delicate southron flower so many believed her to be.

Barbrey gave her hand a vicious squeeze as she pushed again at the Maester Luwin's behest. The child was certainly taking its time making itself known to the world, something that surely tired Barbrey more than Catelyn, who was already exhausted. Thinking on her exhaustion did no one any favors, just as thinking on how sorely he wished to leave and see Ned only served to further upset her. In an effort to be useful instead, she motioned for a servant to pass a wet cloth, which Cat pressed to Barbrey's forehead to soak up the sweat that had formed a thin film there.

“Almost, my lady-- the child’s head is showing,” the maester said from his place between Barbrey’s legs.

“He said almost, Barbrey. Come on now, you’re almost there,” Catelyn added, smiling tightly. The woman gave a shout in return, and squeezed her hand hard again. Catelyn chewed her lip to keep from crying out herself. _Almost there, Cat,_ she told herself.

Eventually, Barbrey’s body relaxed, her hand no longer gripping Catelyn’s so fiercely, and the maester stopped asking her to push. Cries of a newborn babe should have then filled the air-- but instead, there was only silence.

Catelyn rises on shaky legs to look to the small child in the maester’s hands. It was not pink and writhing and screaming, but instead it was purple and shrunken and still. Its limbs stuck out stiffly, with its face frozen in an open mouthed expression.

Panicked, Catelyn looked back over to Barbrey, whose head had rolled to the side, looking away from her babe. “I told you,” she murmured in a broken voice. “It was dead. And it’s his fault.”

Catelyn moved to reach for the dead child, but found that her hands were shaking. Her breath came in short bursts, and panic washed over her in a way that was beyond her control. _Calm yourself, Catelyn!_ she scolded herself, but it did not help.

“It was a boy, my lady,” Luwin tells Barbrey solemnly. A midwife was moving for the knife to cut the cord with as another servant walked over with sheets to wrap the babe in. “Do you want to hold him before he is buried?”

Barbrey shook her head weakly. Catelyn glanced once more at the shriveled babe, and darted out of the room. She was not sure where she was headed-- she skipped Robb’s nursery, knowing that he was very much asleep by now, and passed even her own chambers until she stumbled into Ned’s bedchambers.

He was not asleep. He was sitting up in bed, reading a letter by waning candlelight. “Cat,” he called out to her, his voice warm. “How is she?” She climbs into his bed and buries her face in his chest. After a pause, his arms wrap around her, holding her close. “Cat?”

“The babe was stillborn,” she whispered, pained but not in tears. There was simply a panic fluttering at the forefront of her mind, a horrid memory that wanted to make itself known. “He was born blue, and dead.” Her voice trembled as she said it, and she buried her face in his chest to keep from saying more.

She had seen a similar terror before-- she remembered now. She had been only a child standing outside of her mother’s confinement chambers when a servant walked out with a poorly swaddled babe. She had jumped up to see her new brother or sister, only to find a small, puckered creature with a blue tint to its skin.

She cannot recall how she reacted then; she only knew that it was not the last time she would see such a thing.

“His?” Ned asks, his voice pulling her from the depths of memory. “It was a boy?” She sensed the frown in his voice. She looked up to confirm as much, then nodded.

“Yes, it was a boy,” Catelyn replied, recalling the babe’s visage. “I’m frightened, Ned.” She felt small and meek even to admit it, but it felt more dishonest to pretend as if it were not true.

Ned looked at her curiously, and rubbed her back to calm her. “Why are you frightened?”

“My mother-- my mother had many stillborn children. I fear I shall be the same.” She was trembling again, this time partially at the reminder of the memory and her own fear. It was selfish, she knew, to look upon another woman’s dead babe and think only of herself. “I do not want that to be me, to be left with an empty heart and a blue babe. And I do not want you to be far from me should it happen.”

“I do not want to be far from you, if I can help it,” he said before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “But I beg you to rest, Catelyn. You have been up late and your mind wanders to dark corners.”

“You’re right,” she conceded. “I am tired, but I still want you near. I have missed you.” She rests her head upon his chest, so that his heartbeat rang in her ear. “Barbrey is right to hate Brandon. There is no excuse for leaving her.” Her exhaustion made her reckless, and she loosed words without thinking. “To think that I was almost his wife-- that was nearly me in Barbrey’s place. I would hate him, I would.”

Ned’s silence was telling; she had made him uncomfortable at the mention of his brother, as it always had. He harbored a sense of inferiority against him-- that much was obvious. Catelyn tilted her head up, her chin resting on the middle of his chest.

“I do not mean to compare the two of you. You are the greater man by far,” she reminded him softly. It seem her weariness had made her tongue looser than intended.

“Perhaps,” he replied simply, hand still running over her back.

“No. It’s certain.” She sat up to kiss him them, a kiss that was slow, and soft, and sweet. He so easily melted between her fingers, as he was able to do with her. For all this snow and ice, there was plenty of fire in the bellies of these Starks. Perhaps that is what kept them warm.

When they pulled away, Catelyn laid down beside him, comforted by the feeling of his arms around her, the feeling of his chest on her back. It shushed the noise of exhaustion in her mind, and urged her to fall asleep. Just as she was about to do so, Ned’s voice called out to her.

“Cat?” He said, his breath in her hair. “Do you still want to attend your sister’s wedding?”

She turned in his arms to come face to face with him. Those dark grey eyes begged the question kindly. “Yes, I would.”

“There is nothing-- that is, there are no reasons as to why… you shouldn’t travel…” He looked down pointedly at her middle. Catelyn shook her head.

“None,” she said with a squeeze of his arm. “Perhaps soon, but not now.” A new obstacle occurred to her, one that had been in the back of her mind for some time. “But winter has come.”

“It is likely the wedding shall be postponed, and just as likely that it is a mild winter,” he explained. “Should all be well, I should like to take you to the Vale, my lady.”

“And I should like to go with you.” She smiled despite her weariness, and despite her grief, allowing herself to believe instead that the whole world consisted of the four walls of her husband’s bedchambers, and that the snow outside would melt tomorrow.


	8. viii - a confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar learns a difficult truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Wow, sorry for taking so long to update. Between finals and winding down from finals, I've been bone tired and sapped of any creative energy. But I'm back! I hope to crank out a few more chapters before summer courses kick in.
> 
> As always, I am much appreciative of the comments I get. I promise I read each and every one, including those begging me to update. Thank you all so much for your continued support.
> 
> Onwards to the chapter!

Waking up the next morning was a completely different experience than the day before. This time, he did not have Lyanna’s warm body nestled into his, the skin of her back sticking to his chest, his nose buried in her hair. Instead, he woke to cold sheets and an empty bed, yet still he was loathe to move.

She was right-- he had betrayed her trust in the most intimate of ways, and her rage was warranted. He ought to have told her the truth at the first available moment, not allowed it to find her before he did. It was a bitter fact that harsh light exposed all flaws; and once Rhaegar had ascended to the throne, the light had burned him and revealed a truth most unsavory.

Yet despite it all, and despite his dalliance, the child at Elia’s breast was not his. That was a certain impossibility, and the one he had to try his hardest to disprove. The truth of this issue would put him in the good graces of two people who had risen upon their haunches-- or at the very least, place him on the path to their good graces.

It occurred to him then that these two people, Lyanna and Oberyn, were more alike than they knew. Proud, fierce, wild, and dangerous, each in their own way… _If the gods have any love left for me, they will not allow those two to cross paths,_ Rhaegar prayed.

There were matters of court to attend to today-- of simpler things than organizing a council or announcing it. The lower lords who had gathered in the capital will want to see him and speak with him, and it would be in his best interest to make himself accessible to them. Part of his father’s folly was shutting himself off from everyone and allowing his subjects to bear little love for him. Rhaegar did not want to be his father’s son. He wanted to be loved, admired, respected, and feared for reasons other than reckless violence. Whatever madness he had budding in him, he intended to bury it. The court would only see the best of him.

Before any of that, however, Rhaegar had a more pressing issue at hand. As much as it pained him to admit it, there was only one man who could provide the most aid in remedying it.

Rhaegar sat in his solar, tapping his fingers impatiently on his desk. He hated feeling as anxious as he did, yet much had happened to make him feel near ready to burst. Waiting on the Spider to arrive was one such thing.

When he did arrive, it was in a cloud of perfume and powder, his round body swathed in colorful robes. He sported that ever-irritating smile that always seemed to imply that he held some terrible secret-- and Rhaegar had no doubt that he did.

“Your grace,” the eunuch said with a bow. “What can I do for you this lovely morn?”

“I let you live, Varys, because I thought you would be of some use to me,” Rhaegar said between gritted teeth. “Yet rumors fly about my reputation, and you are as silent as can be. Why?”

Insufferable as always, Varys smiled. “Rumors are just rumors, your grace. Most are baseless, but I know the difference. I could come to you with every word I hear, as your father had preferred it…”

Rhaegar nearly winced. “I am not my father,” he said, in a voice weaker than he would have wanted. “I only feel I’ve a right to know when people whisper that I have fathered a bastard. You’ve heard that, haven’t you?”

Varys nods. “If you are speaking of Lady Elia Martell’s child, there have been many, many whispers around him. You are only one of many candidates for this boy’s father.”

“Am I not also one of the most likely?” Rhaegar asked, despising how the eunuch circled the subject. “A bastard is a stain on my reputation, Lord Varys, particularly when he is not mine. Wouldn’t you agree?”

He nods again. “Certainly. Yet, I do not think you have much to fear for long. Elia Martell and a small party of people departed early in the morning. They must be somewhere on the Kingsroad by now.”

Rhaegar blinked, taken aback by this new piece of information. “Truly?” He muttered. “Do you believe this will lessen the rumors or inflame them further?”

“As these things go, out of sight is out of mind,” Varys said with a wave of his hand. “It is too soon to say if the rumors will come back stronger. Since this interests your grace, however I shall keep an ear bent toward it.”

“Good,” Rhaegar returned gruffly. “I’ve another question for you: do you know the child’s true father?”

Varys shook his head. “Not with certainty, no. Shall I find out for you, your grace?”

Rhaegar nodded. “Do that. If you’ve nothing else to tell me, you are dismissed.”

“Ah, well, there is _one_ other thing,” Varys said cheerily. “Lady Ashara Dayne was found one morning leaving your goodbrother’s room-- Lord Brandon, that is, the older one.”

Rhaegar furrowed his brows. “Why should that interest me?” His goodbrother’s affairs were none of his concern.

“Well, Lady Ashara is a close friend of Lady Elia’s. Shares her bed, even. Lord Brandon was found speaking with her on a different day, with questions about Lady Elia and her child. The lady refused to answer, even to seduction. Your goodbrother walked away rather frustrated from that encounter.”

 _What business does he have asking?_ Rhaegar thought to himself. _What does he care? Does he think I’ve dishonored his sister?I’ve only cast my net even wider,_ Rhaegar thought, exasperated. He waited until Varys left to fall back into his seat and shielded his closed eyes with his hand. _I am being driven in circles._

“Your grace,” Ser Jonothor called from his place by the door. “I have something of my own to report.”

Rhaegar did not open his eyes. “What is it?”

“It’s the queen, your grace. She sent her brother to ask Lady Ashara those questions.” Rhaegar’s eyes sprung open. “I was in the room when she asked it of him.”

“Did she mention me?” Rhaegar asked, sitting up straight. The last thing he needed was Brandon’s ire on top of so many others’. “Did she state the reason why?”

“She did not. She posed it to him as if it were something she wished to learn out of curiosity,” Jonothor replied.

 _She is without answers then, like me._ The thought was not a comforting one; though she ought to have entrusted her conniving to someone less dense than Brandon Stark, he had hoped that she might have found an answer through him.

More frustrating was the reminder that Elia was well on her way to Dorne now. He wondered if she knew what havoc she had wrought by her presence; havoc that was partially his own fault, for he knew he ought to have told Lyanna sooner, but the crop of new and dangerous rumors in his castle put him at unease. Historically, a Targaryen bastard was a dangerous thing. While this babe was no Targaryen, not in the slightest, it would take only a handful of people to convince him otherwise in the future, and to have men rally around him. Dornishmen specifically would no doubt take advantage of such a situation. While Rhaegar liked to believe that Elia would prevent such a thing from happened, for she alone knew the truth behind the boy’s father, it was not Elia he feared.

Oberyn was ever the viper. His sharp dark eyes still swam to the front of his mind from time to time. Given the opportunity, and enough reason, Oberyn could be dangerous, and his bastard nephew a great weapon in his hands.

Yet it could not come to that. Rhaegar would find the boy’s father, present his name and body if need be to Oberyn, and let the world witness the viper’s wrath.

A knock comes at the door, indicative that someone unfamiliar was arriving. Rhaegar straightens himself in his seat. The knight posted outside, Ser Oswell, pokes his head in. “Lady Ashara Dayne come to see you, your grace.”

Rhaegar blinks, silent for the briefest moment. “Bring her in,” he commanded, rising to his feet. The lady comes in, a woman Rheagar only knew as Arthur’s sister. Her long, black hair fell loose around her shoulders, and a travelling cloak was tied around her neck. Her dress was plain, not courtly, and she wore leather gloves. 

“Your grace,” she greeted him with a swift curtsey. “Your grace, please tell me I am not too late.” There was a flush about her cheeks that indicated that she arrived here in a hurry.

Rhaegar furrowed his brows, confused. “Too late for what?”

“My brother-- My brother did not come to you yet, did he?” She asked, looked panicked. Rhaegar shook his head, and she visibly relaxed. “Thank the--” She began, possibly as a prayer of relief, but she cut herself off and turned serious once more. “I must tell you something. I had always known who his father was, known deep in my heart, and I know what sort of man my brother is, but he is-- he does not deserve-- I am begging you to practice mercy, your grace.”

Rhaegar remained baffled as tears sprung into her eyes. He understood nothing from her, as frazzled as she was. He walked to where she stood and placed a gentle hand on her elbow. “I do not understand, my lady,” he said softly in hopes of calming her. “Explain yourself.”

His touch seemed soften her, and she nodded. “I love Princess Elia, your grace, but I love my brother too,” she began with a frown, and her words came at him like a flurry. “The princess-- the night before, she told my brother the truth about her babe. I knew that, but I did not know of my brother’s intentions until she confessed them this morning. She cares for my brother, and she fears for him. My brother has served you and your father faithfully and with great attention; his knighthood is his life, and I cannot bear to see him throw both away. I know he will not speak the princess’s name in his confession, I know he would sooner die than shame her, for he believes he has shamed himself and considers his life forfeit. The princess knows she has done enough damage and left the capital, but I chose to stay behind to tell you.”

“Wait,” Rhaegar said, taking advantage of her need to catch a breath to cut in. “Arthur-- what has he done? What does he have to do with the princess?” His heart already knew the answer, but he needed to hear it from her mouth. 

“Princess Elia’s child, your grace-- he is the father. He intends to come to you to forfeit his position on your Kingsguard because he had broken his vows, and he would forfeit his life too to protect her secret, should he be put on trial. Yet I felt I must tell you, before all others. I give you her name so you may be merciful to my brother. Please, you must understand, the princess did not intend to cause anyone harm, least of all to Arthur. I know you must do what is lawful and right, but I beg your mercy upon him.” She took his hand suddenly and pressed a kiss to his ruby ring.

Rhaegar stood soundlessly, mulling over his scattered thoughts. _Why her, Arthur?_ he asked himself. _Why not a serving girl, a lesser lady, a whore?_ Such an infraction he could forgiven without giving it a second thought. Yet at his heels was Oberyn Martell, who demanded the name of the man who dishonored his sister. To stay silent was just as good as giving him his own name-- a dangerous thing on a Viper’s venomous tongue.

Yet Arthur knew everything, knew things his own wife did not: he knew of the prophecy, of his troubles, of his love for Summerhall, of the rival court he had begun as a prince, of how Rhaegar condemned himself to the Seven Hells for murdering his own father. Arthur was his closest friend; his greatest knight. The thought of stripping Arthur of his titles, of giving him up to Oberyn, of smearing his name was utterly bewildering. Without Arthur, where would Rhaegar be? Would he still be a frightened prince on Dragonstone, with a frightened wife and a child who would also grow to learn fear?

The sound of rising voices outside of the door to his solar distracts him. Ashara drops his hand and looks over, her violet eyes brimming with tears. Ser Jonothor quickly moves to the door, his sword drawn, prepared to strike down any intruder. The man who enters leaves him at an impasse; he looks to Rhaegar, waiting for an answer.

Rhaegar nods, and Arthur enters, but Ser Jonothor does not sheath his sword. He stands off to the side, watchful.

Rhaegar looks upon Arthur Dayne, who looked oddly naked without his white scaled armor. He wore a nobleman’s clothes, a fine yet simple shirt and dark trousers with boots. His light blond hair was tousled and his eyes rimmed red. Under his arm he held his white helm. He did not even glance at his sister; simply dropped to one knee, and extended the white enameled helmet out to his king.

Rhaegar tried to muster a feeling of disdain, of disappointment or rage. Rhaegar’s emotions swam unclear in his head as he tried to make decision after decision, yet he could not decide on anything, much less of what to say or do. All he could think was: _why did it have to be her, Arthur?_

“Your grace,” the knight, his dearest friend, mutters. “I have come to you to confess a crime.”


	9. ix - cages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The truth does not set Lyanna free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I apologize profusely in all of my notes. Nevertheless, I'm sorry for the delay. I hope the length of it makes up for the wait, just a little. Enjoy!

“Elia Martell left, your grace,” Cersei told her, a look of indignation glimmering in her green eyes. “I know it was not due to your own actions.”

“I know, Lady Cersei.” Lyanna ground her teeth, unjustly irritated at being reminded of this fact. She had heard of Elia’s flight last night, the only piece of information that Brandon had been able to extract. “Yet you know that it was not possible for me to build evidence against her in this short time given to me. If I were to make an example of her, I would have needed more time.” Even saying this now, Lyanna did not feel convinced. Could she have done such a thing? Built an accusation to serve as warning to those who would try to lay with her husband, who would bring his bastard into his home? Was it even truly his bastard? Rhaegar said it was not-- yet how could she believe him?

“You should have spoken to her yourself. Learned the information directly from her,” Cersei continued. “You are the queen. You could have made her confess.”

“And how would I know if her confession was true?” Lyanna returned unkindly, balling her fists in her lap. She had hardly gotten any sleep at all the night before, and even being around the children did little to soften her mood. Instead she had retired to her rooms, sour and upset. “Everyone lies to me, Lady Cersei. No one had been honest with me since I had stepped into this castle. No one but the queen before me, but she’s gone now.” It was strange; these past few moons had made her miss Rhaella Targaryen something fierce. The woman had not been warm and motherly to her, but she had been a friend. She had seen much, felt much, tried to make Lyanna hard and sharp, smart and quiet, a good queen, mother, and wife. Lyanna did not listen to her as often as she should have; now, she would have done anything she asked her to. 

“There are ways to make people tell the truth,” Cersei said, standing tall and proud before her. “You cannot tell me that you are above such methods.”

“Enough,” Lyanna returned with a huff. “It’s too late now, isn’t it? What’s the use in discussing this?”

“You have men at your disposal. Not your husband’s men, but Stark men. They can surely ride faster than Dornish host with a woman and a babe. Stop them on the road, and have them return her here.”

Lyanna pinned Cersei with a withering glare. “Why are you so intent on having me make enemies, Lady Cersei? Do you truly think I do not have enough?”

That kept the golden-haired woman quiet, and set Lyanna at ease once more. The woman may be trying to help, but her suggestions were impossible, or far more violent than Lyanna could manage. It was as if she had a natural hatred of people; women in particular, for as free as she was with her tongue, it never spoke ill against Rhaegar.

_It is his fault. If that babe is truly his, then he is the one who put it in her. My qualms are with him, not Elia Martell._

Lyanna rubbed her eyes, which had begun to sting. “It does not matter anymore,” she said, angry at herself for the emotion that had overcome her. “All I can do now is pray the rumors don’t grow-- that is what is truly dangerous. It does not matter if the child is Rhaegar’s or not, so long as the world does not believe it is his. The throne will be my son’s one day; as long as it remains his and uncontested, I will pay no mind to this bastard.”

“Then you forgive Elia?” Cersei asked, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“It is not her who should beg my forgiveness.” Lyanna rose from her seat and smoothed the wrinkles in her gown. “I am going to the gardens. Will you accompany me?”

She gave her a stiff nod, and led the way to the door. Lyanna followed her into her antechambers, where the children had been left behind with her other ladies and a septa. Yet when Lyanna entered, she found things were not as she had left them.

Rhaegar stood in the center of the room, Jon in his arms and Daenerys and Viserys sitting at his feet. Lyanna’s ladies stood off to the side, looking puzzled and anxious, their glances darting between Lyanna and Rhaegar. They knew of their quarrel, only small details that Lyanna had let slip. They also knew how Lyanna’s rage could turn her heart into ice; she fixed a look upon Rhaegar that she hoped came off as bored and indignant. When he looked to her, Cersei curtsied low but Lyanna remained stiff.

“I need to speak with you,” her husband said, absentmindedly passing off Jon to the closest woman. He moved past her and to her bedroom, and stopped right at the door when he noticed that she did not follow.

“Speak here,” she returned coldly. “Quickly, for I must away.”

His face appeared tired as he looked at her. “Please, Lyanna,” he whispered. “I would not trouble you if it was not urgent.”

Lyanna set her jaw, prepared to make this encounter more difficult for him, but relented at the last second. They could play this game all day, Lyanna being stubborn and uncaring while Rhaegar grew more exhausted. Sparing her ladies the awkward sight, she led the way into her bedchambers. Rhaegar closed the door behind them as Lyanna retreated a ways away from him, choosing to stand by window that overlooked her writing desk.

“If you’ve come to tell me that Elia has left the capital, then you shall be the third and least welcome one to do so,” Lyanna stated, folding her hands over her gown. “Now both of us are without answers, and her flight makes it all the more difficult to find them.”

“I’ve come to you to speak with you on a related matter,” her husband returned, sounding weary. “The father of her child has stepped forward.”

Lyanna’s jaw nearly dropped. “Who?”

Rhaegar runs a hand over his face before lowering himself into the nearest chair. He leaned forward, his elbows propped on his knees with his hands clasped together. He appeared pensive, unsure of how he sure answer, avoiding her eyes until he finally spoke. “I could take you to see him, if you’d like.” 

“ _Who_ , Rhaegar?”

“Arthur.”

“Arthur? Ser Arthur _Dayne_?” The name felt foreign on her tongue, and she nearly laughed aloud. The very notion of Ser Arthur dishonoring himself so was ridiculous. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“I take you for a smart woman, and thus I understand why you do not believe me,” Rhaegar returned with half a sigh. “I did not believe it myself. His sister came to me this morning to inform me, then he confessed it himself while I was still speaking with her.”

“How do I know that this is not another lie?” Lyanna asked. “That you did not persuade poor Arthur to lie for you?”

“Lady Ashara spoke to me first,” he pointed out. “She is still in the capital if you wish to speak to her.”

“Lady Ashara went to bed with my brother, whom you might know is a married man. I question her honor in this,” Lyanna returned, though she was unsure of what point she was making here. It was simply an inconvenient fact.

“If that is the case, then both my honor and yours is in question too.”

Lyanna’s face burned. “I did not lay with Robert.”

“Nor did I lay with Elia.” Rhaegar sighed, stepping down quickly from his position of attack. “Why would she lie to me, Lyanna? This information ruins her brother’s reputation. It has _already_ ruined him, though that is no fault of hers.” Rhaegar rose, shaking his head.

“What do you mean?” She asked, confused. 

“Ser Arthur is an honorable man. He has broken one of his vows, and no longer sees himself fit as a knight of the Kingsguard. He has more or less arrested himself; he sits in the dungeons now, awaiting my judgement. I have found myself at a loss.” He slowly moves toward her until he is within arm’s length. “I cannot bear the thought of the Kingsguard without him. I do not want to punish him; he is neither the first knight nor the last to break a vow. Yet even if he can persuaded to stay, even if we can brush it all under the rug…”

Lyanna leaned forward, waiting for him to finish. “What?” 

“Oberyn Martell is certain to learn the truth soon; if not from me, then from his sister, or perhaps Lady Ashara. I do not know what will become of Arthur then.”

“What could Oberyn do to him?”

“Many things,” he replied cryptically. “At the very least, he could see Arthur punished for breaking his vow.”

“Would his sister want that?”

He paused, appearing to mull it over. “No, I do not think so.”

“Would he go against his sister’s wishes?” She tried to imagine Brandon doing the same, and found that she could imagine the scenario quite easily-- particularly when it came to matters of her honor. 

“I imagine he would, should the fancy strike him. His sister’s honor must mean a great deal to him.”

“Perhaps you should wait, then. Allow him to leave King’s Landing empty handed; let Elia tell him the truth on his return. It gives us time to prepare-- and to decide Arthur’s fate.” Lyanna surprised herself at how quickly the answer presented itself to her. In making these decisions with Rhaegar she had forgotten how cross she was with him. She supposed that was how it would be; regardless of their marital troubles, they were still king and queen. Their duties did not end with the start of a quarrel.

“I cannot make that decision,” Rhaegar admitted in a soft voice. “Nor can I persuade him to stay.”

Lyanna knew the two were as close as brothers; in a certain light, without his helm, Ser Arthur even looked he could _be_ his brother. That closeness clouded Rhaegar’s mind, made him hesitant to choose a path for him.

 _Arthur has always been kind to me, and true._ Ever since she had been a girl she had been in total awe of him. She recalled her and Benjen, sparring in the godswood with wooden sticks, choosing roles for themselves. When they called out the names of the knights they were playing as, it always came to a quarrel when one of them shouted _’Ser Arthur’_ before the other.

She recalled a more recent memory, of Ser Arthur urging her to endure the Mad King’s cruelties. _You cannot fight dragonfire with more fire, your grace._

“I should like to see him,” Lyanna told her husband softly. Her eyes darted back up to her face, surprised. 

“I will take you to him,” he said, reaching for her hand. She pulled it towards her before he could clasp it.

“Do not touch me,” she snapped with more fire than she had intended to release. With talks of diplomacy over, she quickly fell back into her previous bitterness. “I’ve only asked you to take me to him. I will tell you when I want you to touch me.”  
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Arthur had been kept in the second level of the dungeons, though Rhaegar had told her on the way over that he had insisted on the third: the black cells. Not even Rhaegar could allow him that, and thus Arthur was confined to the same cells the highborn inhabited, and not among the commoners on the first level.

This level was empty; there was no other highborn criminals but him, and he sat in his windowless cell alone. Peeking through the iron bars of the door, Lyanna saw a cot, but Arthur did not use it. He sat upon the stone floor and stared at the wall, appearing pensive.

The gaoler opened the door, which creaked loudly before hitting the wall. Lyanna stared down its solitary captive, eyes wide.

She hardly recognized him; out of his armor, Arthur Dayne looked less of a knight and more like a lord. He wore a fine silk shirt that bared some of his chest, fair hairs peeking over the fabric, along with black trousers and polished boots. His hair was neatly combed, with one lock of flaxen hair falling into his violet eyes. Lyanna had always thought him to be handsome, but out of his armor he was a vision, a true knight of the songs. _The Sword of the Morning._

Rhaegar was behind her, shifting from foot to foot as this silent exchange happened. Arthur looked up at them but did not rise; his eyes were rimmed red, and tired. Lyanna look back at her husband.

“You may leave us,” she told him. Rhaegar parted his lips as if to protest, but decided better. He nodded, then turned on his heel to leave. He left behind Ser Oswell, who stood a ways away from the door. Lyanna nodded to him to stay put before she stepped inside Arthur’s cell. She lowered herself onto the rickety cot, keeping herself stable by planting her feet firmly on the floor.

“You’re still cross with him?” Arthur asked, smiling softly up at her.

“With who? Rhaegar?” Lyanna was perplexed. “How do you know?”

“He tells me everything.”

“Everything? I hope not.” She smoothed the front of her dress with a sigh. “Though perhaps it is precisely because he tells you everything that he is so reluctant to let you go.”

“Yes. Then he’d have to tell _you_ everything.” He was smiling, making a jest. “I’d imagine you’d be less cross with him if he did.”

Lyanna rolled her eyes goodnaturedly. “I do not think I shall know his secrets half so well as you. I am sure he has many secrets, and that you have kept every last one.”

“I have,” Arthur agreed. 

“And now he wishes to keep one for you. Why do you deny him this?”

“Because I have dishonored myself, and thus I have dishonored him. The Kingsguard are but an extension of the King. Our vows are sacred.”

“You would not be the first knight nor the last to break a sacred vow, Ser Arthur,” Lyanna pointed out, repeating what Rhaegar had told her.

“No,” said Arthur. “I have broken my vows before, your grace, and for that I shall be condemned to the Seven Hells. But there are vows you break to better your king, and vows your break for yourself. My actions were selfish.”

“How can it be?” Lyanna asked, puzzled. The notion of Arthur breaking multiple vows was baffling. “If you have broken vows before, how can it be that this one is the one that breaks you?”

Arthur is silent for some time before he speaks again. “Perhaps it is all of them that have broken me, your grace.”

“I don’t understand. What have you done?”

He smiled as he did before, a soft and teasing smile that made his eyes twinkle. It made her heart jump in her chest. “Horrible things. You’d swoon if you knew what.”

“I do not believe that,” Lyanna insisted. “They say you are the greatest knight who ever lived.”

“Who says that?”

“I do. My brothers, too.”

“And you still think I am great? What sort of great knight fathers children with women they are forbidden to have?” He spoke with disgust directed at himself. Lyanna had never considered that a man might do such a thing when speaking of his child; but then, there were few men like Arthur. 

“They say Aemon the Dragonknight did just that with his beloved sister Naerys,” Lyanna pointed out.

Arthur snorted. “Those are rumors, your grace. I speak the truth.”

“What of your sworn brothers? Have they all kept their vows?”

He avoided her eyes. “I cannot speak for them.”

“So they have not. Thus you set a higher standard for yourself than the others.”

“And I must,” he replied fiercely. “Had my folly not brought harm to my king’s reputation, then I might have found it within me to continue in my station. You know rumors, and they are dangerous things; snakes whose bite may either be venomous or harmless, but you would not know until it was too late. The bastard-- _my_ bastard is being spoken of as Rhaegar’s. I refuse to come forward and confess before the sights of the Seven that the child is mine, for I swore to Elia that I would not name her. I have shamed my king, who is too merciful to bring my name to light, and thus the boy remains his bastard in the eyes of the court, both here and in Dorne. You should hate me, your grace.”

“I do not hate you,” Lyanna replied weakly.

“Then you will one day. When the boy becomes a man and rises up against your son to claim the throne for himself, you will remember me, and you will hate me.”

Lyanna grimaced. “No, then I will hate you and Rhaegar both, for being too foolish to bring the truth before the gods. Perhaps _I_ should be the one to bring you to trial. I could name your sister and Elia Martell as witnesses, and bring an end to those rumors and the threat the boy poses to my son’s rule.”

Arthur’s face is stoic, and his voice flat. “Perhaps you should. My fate is in your hands, your grace.”

Tears of frustration sprung into her eyes at the knight’s lack of caring. “I do not want it in my hands! _You_ made this decision, Ser Arthur, out of love or out of lust. Throwing yourself upon the block does not solve anything if the boy’s father is still rumored to be my husband’s. Even if you stood before the court and confessed him to be yours, they would laugh and begin their whispers anew. For who else would protect their king’s reputation other than his honorable knight? Who would seem like a monster once he stripped his most trusted knight of his white cloak and his life in order to protect himself?” She rose to her feet. “You do not think. None of you do.” Her shoulders slumped after her final words, and she heaved a heavy sigh. 

Arthur rose, pulling himself to his full height. He stood as tall as Rhaegar, but was the broader man by far. He had always towered over her, yet Arthur never scared her. On the contrary, she always felt safe around him. Even now, with him out of his armor, she felt safe.

“Rhaegar was wrong to burden you with this. I apologize,” Arthur said before bowing low.

“No.” Lyanna shook her head. “I will not be kept in the dark anymore. I want to know the hard things along with the sweet-- yet I cannot think of any way fix this. I cannot predict what Oberyn may do. I do not know if the rumors will amount to naught or if they will ruin me.”

“Elia would not let the child rise against you,” he assured her.

“Men grow to be weak,” Lyanna returned firmly. “They neglect their women. They grow ambitious without limits, and similar men around him may push him to take up the sword.”

“There are other ways to gentle a house, your grace.”

“Like what?” She furrowed her brows. “They do not want our coin, I’m sure, and the boon that they desire is your name, Ser Arthur.”

“Give them my name.”

“But that is not enough,” Lyanna added with another sigh. “I cannot predict what they will do, but I cannot see it faring well for anyone. Rhaegar cannot bear to see you gone no more than he can stomach your death. If Oberyn does not share your name and this story, then nothing changes. If he chooses to ignore it in favor of a war to come--” She pauses when she feels Arthur’s thumb and index finger close around her finger. Beneath his thumb, he stroked the moonstone of the steel ring Rhaegar has bought her. Then he bowed his head and raised her finger to kiss the stone.

“You are clever, your grace,” Arthur said kindly, returning her hand to her side. “And you will survive your station yet. Save your fire for a man more deserving.”

“My fire?” Lyanna inquired, puzzle. “I do not worry myself for you alone. Rhaegar trusts you like he trusts no other. You have always been good to me, Ser Arthur. Does my son not deserve to know you as my husband does?”

“‘Tis not a matter of deserving, your grace. I am a selfish man; perhaps I do not possess the same sort of selfishness as other men, but it is selfishness nonetheless. I was selfish to love her, and I’m selfish now for refusing my station.”

“I do not understand,” Lyanna said, not for the first time. “You are a true knight, Ser Arthur. Perhaps the only one. Would you forsake a chance to redeem yourself, and to keep that title?”

“A true knight,” Arthur repeated rather wistfully. “If you find such a thing, I pray you show him to me. Perhaps then I’ll remain at our king’s side.”

“You confuse me,” Lyanna admits with a frown.

“As I should.” He places a gentle hand on her elbow. “Speak with your husband. Ask him to provide some clarity.”

Lyanna nodded numbly, combing through her muddled thoughts. There was no clear answer, and no clear end to this problem. Someone would suffer; if not now then later, at a time many years from now, when this whole exchange would be gone from memory.

As she steps out of the cell she pauses, a new thought coming to mind. “Ser Arthur,” she began, turning back around. He was still standing, waiting for her to leave. “If we relieve you of your station-- well, you would need a reason as to why you cannot continue, yes?”

“I’ve fathered a bastard,” Arthur replied plainly.

“Then you would be gelded and sent to the Wall, like Lucamore the Lusty,” Lyanna returned, recalling the precedent. She had read too many tales of knights, it seemed, both true and false. Somehow, this didn’t sound like the end of Ser Arthur’s story.

His jaw sets visibly. “Then that is my fate.”

 _No, I do not think it is._ Lyanna remained silent, twirling the moonstone ring about her finger. She glanced back over to the knight. “I will see you again, ser.”

“I could only hope to be so lucky,” he replied sincerely, bowing low. The door to his cell closed with a heavy thud, the sound of it followed by the rattling of keys as the gaoler locked it once more. It was a strange sight, to see the Sword of the Morning behind bars-- and it was not one she could get used to.


	10. x - loose tongues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cersei Lannister was not afraid to pry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, blah blah, you know how it is. This chapter may not be what everyone wanted but it's meant to bridge the gap between some events I have planned. Enjoy :)

Cersei had a hundred reasons to be wroth, nearly half of them coming about after becoming a lady-in-waiting to the queen-- the insufferable, insipid, ungrateful queen. While Jaime had been hesitant to share royal secrets as of late, nearly all that he did confess set her blood a-boil.

She had nearly burst into tears when he told her that Rhaegar had bedded his queen for the first time in ages-- what could have been an easy foothold into the king’s bed was now pulled out from under her as the wolf-bitch appeared to finally be doing her duty by him and spreading her legs. Cersei doubted she had any talent for it, and prayed that she was unsatisfactory enough for the king to keep away after. To Cersei’s great satisfaction, and even greater curiosity, he did just that.

Appearing constantly sour-faced and sullen, the queen had apparently done a great deal more than displease him. Details did not follow, even when Cersei pressed her, though she did learn that the thing that had rankled the queen the most was her husband’s bastard with the Dornishwoman.

_ Isn’t it obvious why he would want her, instead of you? _ Cersei had internally berated the queen, particularly when she sat before her.  _ A beautiful woman-- and a woman she is, while you are scant more than a little girl.  _ Cersei knew she was beautiful herself, and younger than Elia yet older than the queen. It should be child’s play to get the king to play into her hands, especially now.

Yet the king appeared utterly unresponsive, and to more than just Cersei. There was a dullness to his gaze and an increased sorrow behind the dark purples of his eyes. Someone had hurt him-- Cersei wanted so desperately to mend that hurt, to kiss and feel his worry away, but he wouldn’t even look her way. When he did, he appeared to be looking right past her, unaware of her presence entirely.

With her game being one of waiting, and of assessing, Cersei soon picked up on another interesting new event-- the missing Ser Arthur Dayne. While she had never been one to notice the knight, others had done her work for her; some starstruck women of the court pouted over how Ser Arthur hadn’t been around for them to ogle, though what they saw in him when Rhaegar was so often at his side was beyond Cersei’s understanding. As stupid as they all had been, they had been right: Ser Arthur was nowhere to be seen.

She should have noticed earlier, in truth, for he was Rhaegar’s faithful shadow. Relating it to the fresh spring of sorrow in Rhaegar’s faced, she sensed a story behind this sudden loss. Thus, she pressed Jaime for answers. 

“I don’t know what’s happened,” her brother insisted, already being short with her. 

“Surely you know  _ something _ ,” Cersei pressed in turn. “Don’t you and your sworn brothers keep secrets for each other, about each other?”

“Yes, but I fear I have not been included in that conversation,” Jaime noted bitterly. So that was why he was more irritable than usual-- he hated not fitting in amongst his sworn brothers.

“What? So it’s a secret between you lot, too?”

“All I know is that Arthur has been arrested-- for what, I do not know,” Jaime finally huffed. “Though my understanding is that he descended to the dungeons of his own will."

Cersei cocked a brow. Ser Arthur, arrested? “The king ordered his arrest?”

“I don’t know-- something happened in Rhaegar's solar. Do not ask me what.”

“Arthur is Rhaegar’s close friend, is he--”

“Ser Arthur would never hurt or betray the king,” Jaime barked indignantly. “I don’t know what happened between them, but I do know that.”

“Who would know, then?”

Jaime cast her a dark look. “Why do you care so much? Are you trying to bed the king, or Arthur? Or have you cast a wider net?”

“Answer my question,” Cersei snapped, narrowing her eyes dangerously. “Who would know?”

“Ser Gerold,” Jaime nearly spat before pressing his lips into a bloodless line.

“The White Bull,” Cersei recalled the epithet dryly. “I take it he would not respond to a woman?”

Jaime’s glare somehow intensified.

“How about drink? No man can resist a spot of ale.”

Jaime had heard enough. He marched off, armor clanging, but Cersei only assessed his exit coolly.  _ There is someone out there who knows. There must be.  _ The face of the insipid woman they called “queen” swam to the front of her mind. 

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

Cersei was no stranger to making plots seem like a matter of chance; when she ran into Brandon Stark in the gardens it was a deliberate action, and one she played to perfection.

“Oh!” She cried as she fell to the ground. Her gown was cut low enough that it would be easy work to look down the front of it, particularly from Brandon Stark’s vantage point.

“My lady-- apologies,” her target muttered, extending a hand. She took it delicately but he lifted her to her feet as carelessly as one might treat sack of grain.

Genuinely startled now, Cersei made a show of brushing off her gown. “It’s no worry-- oh, you’re the queen’s brother, aren’t you? Lord Brandon Stark?”

He flashed her a roguish smile. “‘The queen’s brother’ is fine. I’ve rather warmed to the name.” He was clearly the sort of man who was used to having cheeky conversations with women; his dark hair, stormy grey eyes, and impressive height and build no doubt made him a favorite amongst the unimaginative sort. Yet he paled in comparison to her Jaime, and would simply be washed out in Rhaegar’s light.

“I’m your sister’s lady-in-waiting,” Cersei explained, searching for a light of recognition in his face; none appeared. “Cersei Lannister.”

“Right, of course. Should have taken you for Lannister’s sister-- same hair.” He was still flashing his dim smile, and Cersei had to bite her cheek to keep from grimacing.

_ As dimwitted as his sister _ , Cersei mused ruefully.

“Well, I’ll not keep you from doing… Whatever it is that you do,” Brandon said, moving out of her way.

Cersei nearly panicked. He seemed to be expressing no interest in her beyond getting her to let him be; she wondered briefly if she should be bolder. She gingerly took hold of his arm, and inched close enough to him that her breasts were nearly resting on his arm.

“I have nothing to do now, my lord. Perhaps you and I could get to know each other better?” She purred silkily.

The dimwit blinked. “No, I don’t think so,” he replied gruffly, shaking her off.

Unwittingly, Cersei’s jaw dropped. “But…”

“I’m married, sweetling. Try someone else, will you?” He remarked icily.

As he turned away from her, Cersei blurted out, “That didn’t stop you with Ashara Dayne.” It was a rumor, not even a substantial one, but it was her last resort. Unexpectedly, Brandon Stark froze, and turned slowly to face her.

His dark eyes raked over every inch of her, from head to toe, until Cersei’s discomfort got the better of her and she bristled visibly.

“Ashara was far prettier than you,” the young lord remarked as casually as one would comment on the weather. When his eyes returned to her face, he was grinning wickedly. “Though perhaps I should make a habit of fucking the sisters of Kingsguard knights. What do you say, sweetling?”

Cersei’s first instinct was to strike him, but she smothers that in favor of a forced smile. “A man who likes to live dangerously. I suppose you would risk a sword through your heart if it meant a night with me?”

Brandon Stark burst out into laughter that rankled Cersei further. “I could not think of a greater way to die.” He inched closer, forcing her to take steps back until her back was against a hedge. “Though I fear it is for my sweet sister that I’ll pass you up. I cannot imagine that she’d be pleased to hear that I made a whore of one of her ladies; unless you want me enough to forfeit your position? Even then, I think I shall have to refuse you.”

His words paired with his malicious grin set her blood alight; she shoved him backwards with two hands, but he appeared entirely unfazed. He stepped back of his own accord, before standing a ways away with his hand resting arrogantly on the pommel of his sword.

“You presume too much,” Cersei hissed between her teeth. “I cannot imagine why any woman would want to fuck someone as low as you.”

He laughed again. “You seemed keen on the thought not too long ago. I can change my tune if you’d like, my lady. I’ve been told I’ve an illustrious tongue.”

“Save it for Ashara Dayne,” Cersei snapped in return. “Perhaps she’s still in the capital to accommodate you.”

“I can grow fond of such fire,” Brandon returned, infuriatingly calm. “If you desire a companion in your bed, do not hesitate to ask it of me. I will still be here a few days more.” He left her, a grin still plastered on his face, feeling more furious than she had been in weeks.

“The cad,” she hissed under her breath. Yet this exchange was not entirely fruitless-- he had done well to nearly confirm that he had indeed spent a night with Ashara Dayne. Yet if Elia Martell had taken flight, she too may very well be lost to her.

Cersei made her way through the gardens to where Lyanna Stark was sitting, surrounded by her gaggle of mindless hens. Cersei wondered if she knew how fortunate she was; Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, wedded to the most handsome king the realm had ever seen, whelped a male heir on her very first try-- all while being plain-faced, flat as a board, and entirely too  _ northern _ .

Even so, the king trusted her with his secrets. Her brother bore a loyalty toward her. Her empty-headed ladies-in-waiting adored her. She was a doting mother to her son. The king’s little brother loved her as if she were his own mother, and the younger sister threatened to do the same.

Cersei balled her fists in her skirts. She would find a way to outdo her, to know more than her, to be loved better than her. She sensed that the beginning of it all began with learning about what happened to Arthur Dayne. She wondered if Ashara had any care for her honor that way her brother did; she hoped he did not, for when Cersei found her, she would be certain to ask her about Brandon Stark’s  _ illustrious _ tongue.


	11. xi - turmoil and trouble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar solves one of his many problems.

Rhaegar thinks he hasn’t felt so miserable in ages. The last time he had even come close to where he was now was when his mother died-- only now, no one had died. He simply had a friend sitting in the dungeons, completely prepared to. 

His misery showed, apparently, for  Lyanna had dug her fingernails into his arm and whispered, "At least _pretend_ to be interested.” She nodded her head towards the scene in front of them. They had fire dancers, acrobats, mummers, all performing spectacular shows involving light in the darkness of the gardens. The spectators all ooh-ed and aah-ed, but Rhaegar could hardly focus.

“My mind is with Arthur,” he returns in a whisper. “We have sorted nothing out yet.” Nor did he want to-- he had a mind to keep Arthur in the dungeons forever, so he would not be forced to do anything with him.

“I have an idea that I have been mulling over,” Lyanna admitted beside him. She had her hand on his arm and her face was illuminated prettily by the erratic lightshow that played out before them. “But I will not tell you now. Tonight, come and see me.” When her head was tilted up toward him like it was now, it exposed every inch of her bare neck. He had a mind to press a kiss to her throat, to know some warmth in his increasingly cold nights. He knew she would not desire it, and smothered the urge. 

“Not tonight,” he responded, looking away from her. “I told Jon I would see him tonight; we will be discussing the very same matter.” His faithful Hand had some ideas he wanted to voice himself, and tonight was the first time in a while that Rhaegar could rightfully dedicate enough time to him, and enough focus.

“May I join you, then?” His wife persisted. “Perhaps I can lend to this discussion.”

“I thought you do not like Jon.”

“I never said that,” Lyanna returned sharply. “Though I do not think he likes _me_.”

Rhaegar nodded absent-mindedly. “Very well. Meet us in my solar, tonight.”

They all arrived there separately, though Rhaegar appeared to be the last. He entered his solar to find Jon engaged in a furious staring contest with the side of Lyanna’s face, as Lyanna sat in the chair behind his desk, writing something on a piece of parchment. They looked up at him at the same time; Jon straightened noticeably, and Lyanna remained seated in her chair.

“Your grace,” Jon greeted him formally with a shallow bow.

“Good evening Jon,” Rhaegar returned. There was a spell of silence as the three assessed each other, perhaps individually trying to figure out who should speak first. Lyanna had been the quickest to decide.

“Our first concern is the Dornish,” Lyanna began abruptly, placing the palms of her hands on the desk as she rose. Rhaegar noticed she was wearing just her ivory nightgown with a robe fastened over it. While her modesty was still intact, he felt it an oddly intimate choice of attire, even for an informal meeting. “We must give them something to keep them loyal to us. I do not know what-- but an alliance, a solid one, will give us some measure of comfort for the future. Then they may believe what they wish about Elia’s son, but they remain in our pockets. 

“I agree,” Jon added, looked almost pained to admit it. “I’ve the very solution. We must betroth someone to Doran’s daughter-- either Prince Viserys, or Prince Jon, your grace.”

Lyanna looked to him, eyes wide as saucers. “Pardon, Lord Connington? Are you asking that we promise a child in marriage to another child? _My_ child? Are you mad?”

Despite Rhaegar’s own initial shock, he found Jon’s words entirely sensible. A marriage was how Dorne was quelled many years ago, one arranged between Maron Martell and Daenerys Targaryen. Yes, the children were young, but many betrothals were sealed at young ages-- sometimes to be unsealed years later.

“Rhaegar, inform the lord Hand of his madness,” Lyanna snapped to him, clearly even more appalled by Rhaegar’s inaction. “ _Rhaegar_.”

“He is right, Lyanna. There is no better way,” he admitted. He had known for some time now that would be responsible to find Viserys a bride; and what better pick than a princess of the very same house his father had spurned? “Not Jon, though. He will be better served for a different house in the future, depending on how the winds change. Viserys, however-- they are close in age, are they not, the Dornish princess and Viserys?”

“Aye, they are,” Jon said with a nod.

“That is not fair,” Lyanna cried. She bore an expression of distraught that Rhaegar could not wholly understand. “He is only a child! Why can’t he chose someone for himself, when he is older? A woman he loves-- does he not deserve that?”

“Lyanna,” Rhaegar began softly, hoping he did not sound too much like a father trying to calm his upset child. “Rarely do the children of royal marriages enjoy such a privilege." 

“But he cannot even have a say-- he cannot consent to it, or refuse,” Lyanna continued hotly.

“Do you have a different idea?” Jon barked, emboldened by Rhaegar’s agreement with him.

Lyanna fell silent, looking to both men with a measure of hatred in her eyes. Rhaegar, feeling a twinge of guilt, moved a close enough to her to rest a hand on her elbow. She tried to move away, but he held on long enough to murmur, “It is only an option for now. Think of something better, and I will honor it.” Shooting him a final accusatory glare, she pulled away, harder this time, and Rhaegar let her go.

“What if Lord Martell refuses our offer?” Lyanna asked, narrowed eyes moving from Rhaegar to Jon.

Jon’s smirk was hardly visible through his russet beard, but Rhaegar saw it. “He would not dare.”

“You are overconfident, and overproud,” Lyanna remarked coldly. “It would do us all some good if we practiced humility rather than bravado.”

Jon’s mouth twitched dangerously. “With all respect, _your grace_ , I do not think they would be so stupid--”

“Enough, both of you,” Rhaegar interrupted before the scene before them turned into a battlefield. “This matter is settled. Let us move onto Arthur.” Just speaking the words weighed down his heart; somehow, the matter was more pertinent to him than that of Viserys’s future marriage.

“There is no situation where Arthur remains unscathed, or in the Kingsguard,” Lyanna spoke up, quickly brushing off the previous unpleasantness in favor of getting the first word. It was what she had come here for, after all. “I have thought on it over and over. I spoke to Arthur myself, and he too knows this to be true. In order to remove him from the Kingsguard, there must be a cause, and a punishment. The court will not accept a dismissal without good reason-- and such a reason must come at a cost to Ser Arthur’s life, or his name.”

Jon Connington looked to her with surprise. “I’m… inclined to agree with her grace. Arthur cannot be dismissed unpunished without the court thinking you weak or mad; he cannot remain long in the dungeons, either, before people start to whisper.”

“I wish people would learn to hold their tongues,” Lyanna huffed. “That would make all our problems go away.”

Jon snorted. “To ask the court to quit their gossip is like asking a fish not to swim; they’d die without it.”

“What do we do, then?” Rhaegar asked, freshly crestfallen. “If the word ‘death’ is upon either of your tongues, dash it away. I will not hear it.” Jon appeared baffled, but Lyanna nodded sympathetically.

“Why can’t we simply refuse to dismiss him?” Jon Connington asked, looking slightly annoyed. “The man can glower all he wants-- he cannot very well refuse your orders.”

“Dismissing him may save his life,” Rhaegar remarked with a frown. “Even if Arthur can be persuaded to stay, Lord Oberyn Martell will surely learn of the identity of the father of Elia’s child in time; if such an accusation sticks… if Arthur admits his guilt… if Elia herself stands as witness, I will be forced to be rid of him, either through death or the Wall.”

“Should this come to pass, then why don’t we send him to the Wall?” Jon asked. “He keeps his life, then.”

“Because I do not want to send him there,” Rhaegar insisted. “Ser Arthur is an honorable man who has made a single mistake-- he is not the first, nor the last. He is not even the only knight on the current Kingsguard to do so.”

“There are honorable men on the Wall,” Lyanna chimed in, visibly bristled. “The Starks have manned it for thousands of years. The Starks _built_ it.”

“If we send him there, he would be sent as a knight disgraced-- I do not want his name marred,” Rhaegar returned carefully. He had already upset her once tonight; he had no plans to insult her too.

“Rhaegar, you are asking too much for this knight,” Jon said, finally abandoning formality-- a sign that the red-haired man was growing increasingly impatient. “He has not expressed a desire for anything beyond a proper punishment-- he does not ask for his name, or his life, or--” 

“I love him, Jon.” The words that escape Rhaegar’s mouth makes Jon wince. “He is more a brother to me than my own blood. I want to see him honored for the knight he was.”

There is another brief silence as those words ring out through the solar. Rhaegar knew very well that Arthur could not be dismissed with reason, that he refused to remain on the Kingsguard; yet even if Rhaegar granted him this, he did not have the heart to strip him of his honor and his name. He was Ser Arthur Dayne, Sword of the Morning. He did not want him remembered as anything less. 

“I have an idea,” Lyanna announced. “It is not a pleasant one, but perhaps it will do.”

Both men look to her expectantly.

“There must be a way where Arthur can be dismissed honorably. I had done some reading-- for many knights, it is death that relieves them of their stations. Clearly, a dead man is unable to perform his duties; but what of a crippled man?”

Rhaegar blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… If Ser Arthur cannot carry a sword, or even walk, then he is of no use to you. He must go.”

Her words stunned him, and if his silence indicated anything, she had stunned Jon too. She looked anxiously to the both of them before continuing.

“Perhaps he is escorting me one day, to the Kingswood. Perhaps some of the Brotherhood has lingered behind, catch us by surprise. Perhaps they maim both his arms, or his legs. And then…” She pauses, appearing to swallow a lump in her throat. “And then he cannot serve us any longer, but he is dismissed a hero.”

The silence that follows is a long and uncomfortable one. Rhaegar cannot help but stare at his wife and wonder how her mind might have met such a thought. He had always sensed that northerners knew more of death and pain than any southerners; hard winters and cruel conditions prepared them for such. Yet what she proposed--

“That is the work of savages,” Jon blurted out, his ears turning the color of his fiery hair. “Who do you suppose will be the one to break his bones, then? Or tear his limbs off- whatever it is you have in mind?”

Lyanna colored slightly. “I don’t know-- I don’t mean that we must be cruel. Surely Ser Arthur will understand our reasons, yet he remains alive and is free to remain at Rhaegar’s side or to go his own path--” She looked to him for support. “Have you any better ideas? Ones that will actually work? Because my idea _will_ work-- it need not be an entire limb, but if he lost part of his leg…”

“How did you come to such an idea?” Rhaegar asked plainly. Lyanna’s embarrassed blush deepened.

“It is a sacrifice,” she said softly. “I know we shall not see a winter in the South the way we see them in the North-- even our winters as of late have been kind. But there have been winters… My old caretaker at Winterfell used to say… She is an old lady, older than my father even, but she knows stories--”

“The ravings of a mad old crone,” Jon snorted in disbelief. “ _That_ is where you get your ideas from.”

“Peace, Jon,” Rhaegar cut in with a frown. “Let her finish.”

“When the winters were particularly harsh and long, castles would run out of food to feed their families,” Lyanna continued, not discouraged. “The older men would then leave their castles to hunt, knowing very well they would find no food. They walked into blizzards, where they would meet their deaths of cold, so the women and children may keep the last of the food for themselves. It was an honorable sacrifice-- the men knew it, and so did their women. I had thought… A limb is no small sacrifice. With that, we have reason to remove our best knight from the Kingsguard. Then, should the truth of Elia’s bastard be revealed, Arthur cannot be put on trial for breaking his vows." 

“Madness”, Jon barked immediately. “I say we refuse him a dismissal. Force him to remain on the Kingsguard, his own wishes be damned. Let him keep life and limb and wallow in his shame privately. We can take our chances with Oberyn Martell and his lot-- what proof do they have?”

“Are you paying attention, my lord?” Lyanna’s cold voice returned. “Ser Arthur sits in the dungeons awaiting a date for his confession. If we do not give him one, he will make one for himself." 

Jon’s nostrils flared. “Then the man forfeits his life of his own accord! I say let him-- let him find new honor at the Wall, and wash our hands of his folly.”

“You truly aren’t paying attention,” Rhaegar said, a slither of frustration bringing an edge to his voice. “I would spare Arthur’s life and his honor because _I_ desire it. I desire it because he is my brother, because he has kept my secrets, and because he is an honorable man. If he must leave me, then I am worse for it; but I would have him leave with both his head and his honor intact.”

Jon appeared abashed at this sentiment, but not any more convinced. He shook his head slowly, muttered something below his breath, then looked to Rhaegar and Lyanna; to the former, he gave a forlorn look, and to the latter, narrowed eyes. There was a strange sort of enmity between the Hand and the Queen that Rhaegar could not fully understand, but upon sensing Jon’s glare, Lyanna tilted her chin defiantly and pull herself to her full, yet still rather petite, height.

“What, then?” Jon asked in a half-grumble. “Shall we go through with _her_ idea, and smash his arms and legs?”

“It was simply an _idea_ ,” Lyanna said between gritted teeth. “I have not seen you come up with anything better than marrying two children to each other.”

“ _Betrothing_ two children,” Jon corrected with a grimace.

Rhaegar pinched the bridge of his nose. “Enough, please,” he muttered, circling the desk to take the seat Lyanna had vacated earlier. “I must think on it a while longer.” 

“As you wish, your grace,” Jon said, his face considerably softened as he laid eyes upon Rhaegar. “Should you need anything, I am here for you. I am your loyal servant.” Though he did not say it, Rhaegar could almost hear the unspoken ‘too’ that followed his last sentiment.

“For now, I simply wish to be alone. Thank you, Jon.” 

Jon nodded and offered a bow before leaving the solar, shutting the door silently behind him. Lyanna moved to follow him, but Rhaegar caught her wrist before she could slip away.

“May I sleep with you?” Rhaegar asked plainly. He could see a flicker of rage cross her face before he added, “That is all I desire: sleep. I do not truly want to be alone tonight.”

A new, and unexpected emotion makes itself plain in her eyes: sorrow. “When you discovered what passed between Robert and I, you shunned me entirely. You did not open your heart to me. You simply fled to Dorne, and you did not ask what drove me into his arms; so why should I open my bed to you?”

Rhaegar winced. “Lyanna--”

“Is it so difficult to understand how you’ve wounded me? Can a woman not have her pride, as men do? Am I not allowed time to learn how to forgive you?”

“You are.”

“Then why should I share my bed with you, when the wound you dealt me is still fresh in my heart?”

Rhaegar returned her wrist to her side, then looked away from her. There was no excuse for his selfishness beyond his own misery-- even after that night, she continued to lend him advice, shouldered his burdens with him, and remained his supporter. As her husband, he knew he had a right to her bed and more, but he had not yet become the monster his father was to remind her of it. She was being kinder to him then he had expected-- and he had obligation to return her kindness.

“You are right. I apologize.”

“Good night, then,” she bid him in a soft voice. “Come to me when you’ve made your decision with Arthur.”

There was the slightest touch of her hand to his shoulder, and then she was gone, slipping out his solar on slippered feet, robe flowing behind her. With a doleful sigh, Rhaegar reached for the flagon of wine on his desk, and poured out an inch into a goblet. Rarely did he desire drink, but tonight was proving itself to be a too long and trying to do without a cup or two.


	12. xii - because it is my name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elia dreams, and falls ills on the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know a lot of you don't like Elia, but too bad, /I/ do. Enjoy!

In her dreams, Elia Martell saw her mother.

As a little girl, Elia had imagined that there was not a finer woman than her own mother. A tall woman, with a handsome face and a back as straight as a spear, the Princess of Dorne was a more intimidating sight than any man twice her size could ever manage. Everyone kneeled before approaching her, with the men kissing her hand while the women curtsied low. They called her “Princess”, and only “Princess”, with only her own family daring to call her by her true name.

But to Elia, she was only “mother”, and a kinder and warmer mother, Elia would never know. She did not withhold kisses or hugs; she praised her children in a voice like honey and tea, and told them stories in a voice as captivating and mysterious as the stars in the sky.

When Elia had been five-and-ten, her family travelled across much of the South to find a proper lord to promise her to. Elia had not objected to this in the least; on the contrary, Elia did not mind the prospect of marriage at all, and even if no suitable match could be found, at least she could finally say she had seen farther than Dorne’s borders.

Even her health had agreed with her; throughout the length of the trip, she did not cough or swoon or even develop the barest hint of a fever. She had been young, happy, healthy-- and childish too, childish enough to find, with Oberyn’s help, the smallest faults in the men she did meet, and to magnify them large enough to make the sight of them either laughable or repulsive.

But that was before Casterly Rock. In Casterly Rock, she met the most magnificent boy of all; and he was, in fact, only a boy of nine, but it was clear in his face that he would grow to be a most handsome man indeed. He had also appeared to be gentler than his sister; or at least pitied his stunted little brother more. Elia could not understand the rage young Cersei had produced at the sight of her little brother, much less the cruelty she displayed. For all his supposed monstrosity, he was still only a babe, and never had Elia met an ugly babe.

That night, her mother came to her chambers. Her lips had been pressed into a tight line ever since she left Lord Tywin’s solar, but only now when they were alone did she offer a smile. Elia basked in it like a cat in the sun; there was truly nothing greater than her mother’s smile. She joined her on the bed and ran a graceful hand through Elia’s long, black hair.

“My dearest girl,” her mother almost sighed. “How have you found Casterly Rock so far?”

“Very big,” Elia responded with her own smile. “Very grand, too. I feel like it would be all too easy to get lost.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” she returned. “It is too big a castle, for such small men. It seems many of them lose their good sense in its halls.” She is silent for some time, still stroking her hair, and while her dark eyes were fixed on her, they seemed far, far away.

“Did something happen today, mother?” Elia asked nervously.

“Did something happen? No, nothing happened, my sweet. Tomorrow we shall return home; but nothing will have happened.” There is another silence, one that Elia does not break. She waits it out patiently, simply glad to be the focus of her mother’s attention-- or at least the person she chose to share a room with that night. “Elia, did I ever tell you of my time at court?” The question came suddenly. Elia mulled it over, trying to remember. She shook her head.

“I only know you were one of the queen’s ladies, mother.”

“That I was-- and so was Lord Tywin’s lady wife. The three of us had been great friends; I still write to the queen till now, do you know that?”

Elia shook her head again.

“I do. I wonder what she thinks of Joanna’s passing. I shall write her and ask her thoughts, among other things. The queen is a woman who does not forget those who have been loyal to her; and I have been very loyal indeed.” Her mother’s voice took on the tone reserved for political matters better whispered about, while still carrying an edge of maternal fondness. The combination sends a chill down Elia’s spine. “Not even grief mars her memory. But then, she is a smart woman; she knows that it is when we are brought the lowest that we must remember our friends.”

“Has she had many reasons to grieve?” Elia asked innocently.

“Far too many. Yet she remains strong and of sound mind; an example for us all. Yes, I think you shall like her, when you meet her.”

When _I meet her?_ Her mother had said they were returning home on the morrow; when would she meet the queen? Elia knew better than to ask. Her mother’s eyes were far away again, and her smile was not one meant for her.

“Poor Joanna. Her husband is lost without her-- no, worse than lost. A fool.” Her mother looks to her as if she had just appeared from nowhere, and her smile softens into something warmer. “My dearest princess. Promise me you shall not forget who you are.”

Elia was almost puzzled, but she triumphed over the feeling. “I will never forget, mother.”

“You will find that should you have nothing else, you shall always have your name. That is the only thing in the world that truly belongs to us: our names.” The Princess of Dorne kisses her daughter’s temple, then rises. “Sleep well, Elia. You shall want to be well rested for the journey home.”

However, restlessness had won that night, as Elia wondered what the meaning of her mother’s words had been. It was not worry that plagued her, but deciphering the meaning of the promise she had just made: _Promise me you shall not forget who you are._

Who could she ever be, other than Elia Martell? Why should she ever forget? She might seem frail, but even the sickly could be proud. Even she could stand tall and remind the world who she was.

_Elia of Dorne._

Sleep did not embrace her that night; she walked aboard her ship home the next morning with a dry cough and shivers, and the promise ringing in her head.  
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Elia shivered violently, but there was no drawing her covers tighter around her than they already were. Her teeth chattered and her bones ached, but before she had abandoned the wheelhouse for a room in an inn, she had been nauseous too. Her fever enveloped her body, covering her like a lover, kissing every inch of her. Her whole body burned.

She knew she had earned this. She had been foolhardy, and over-eager, and thoughtless. She had been barely out of the birthing bed when she made the journey to King’s Landing, and clearly not in her right mind. Now she was alone and burning with fever, somewhere in a noisy Kingsroad inn.

 _At least Lewyn is asleep._ If her babe had been crying and screaming, she thinks she would get even sicker by the sound of it. Yet such a sound would remind her that she had a child to live for, one that she must feed at her own breast… She did not bring along a wetnurse, so where could she find one now? There were surely some back in King’s Landing, just as there were maesters there, maesters who could have appeared in her room in a matter of minutes rather than the hour it had taken one of her men to go out and find one in a village nearby… An hour, and no sign of him…

A light-skinned girl sat at her bedside and dipped a cloth in a basin of water, wringing out the excess before pressing it to Elia’s forehead. It was pleasantly cool for a little while, before it became as warm as her skin. The girl would then repeat the process, though Elia felt its only benefit was in its brief comfort.

Elia’s sleep eyes fixed on Lewyn asleep in the bed nearby, his chest rising and falling. _Will Oberyn have noticed that I’ve gone by now?_ She wondered groggily. _I wish Ashara were here. She must hate me now, but I wish she were here._ She had hurt Ashara almost as much as she had hurt Arthur; but really, she never wanted to hurt anyone. She wanted to feel loved, feel wanted, first for a night and then for the rest of her life. She wanted Arthur to know the beauty of the gift he gave her, that his love for her bore the sweetest fruit, and she had only him to thank for it. They had both been selfish they night they laid together, though Elia could not decide who had been worse. Was it Arthur, for tossing his vows in favor of a night with the woman he had loved since he was a boy? Was it Elia, for taking advantage of that love, for wanting him only second to Rhaegar, but still above any other man?

 _Rhaegar_. What a vision he was as king. Oh, it should have been her at his side. What a handsome pair they would have made; her with her copper skin, black hair, black eyes, him with his fairness of flesh, eyes, hair. He would shine while she would burn, the dragon and his sun. A legend suddenly came to mind, of how dragons got the fire in their belly by swallowing the sun. Yet the sun was still in the sky, and there were no dragons left to speak of.

Rhaegar had a different wife, one who had no business in the south-- and she knew it too. The queen was still so young, and her eyes betrayed her every emotion. She wondered if the girl knew that when fury had flickered across her face, every lady saw it, and that when her eyes shone with kindness, half the ladies loved her for it while the other half saw someone weak, easy to fool, easy to hurt. Lyanna Stark belonged back in the North, where her people appreciated her candor and her name, where every man would raise a sword for her and every woman would wrap an arm around her and beg her to stay a while.

_Poor girl. The court does not deserve her._

Another shiver wracked her body, this one coupled by a painful chattering of teeth. Elia touched the cool arm of the girl who tended to her.

“Where is the maester I sent for?” She asked, her dry lips chafing.

“I don’t know, princess. Perhaps you should send word to Prince Oberyn,” she added hurriedly. “You do not look well. The prince would know what to do…”

Oberyn was practically a maester himself, and would ride the fastest sand steed to see her; he may be doing so already, for she disappeared without even telling him. He would be so cross, she knew it, and once she told him the rest of what she had to say, he would be even crosser. Everyone knew that Oberyn had no master but himself; Elia admired him for it, but sometimes, she could hate him for it too.

“It’s not unusual for me to fall ill; there’s no sense in alarming the prince,” Elia insisted wearily. “I need rest, and a maester’s draught. As soon as I am able to ride the wheelhouse again, we shall continue to Dorne.”

The girl was sweet enough to have tears shine in her eyes.

She has spells of consciousness met by periods of unconsciousness, where she slept fitfully and feverishly and saw strange visions. Of course, whenever she woke again, she found that she had forgotten nearly all she’d seen; she did recall the sight of two brown hands dipping into a pool of water, a horse galloping across a field of green with no rider, a film of frost that clung to a glass window, and Oberyn…

“Oberyn,” she called out to her brother’s face, which swam before her, etched with equal measure of anger and concern. “Why are you here?”

“Why am I here?” Oberyn repeated, scoffing. “You run off with a wheelhouse and a score of our men, lay aching with fever in some filthy inn, all without telling me, and you ask why I’m here?” Her brother glared at her for a moment longer before return to the mortar and pestle in his hands. He was preparing some green paste, whose smell was not so pleasant.

“I just want to go home,” Elia said, her voice trembling. “I have no business in King’s Landing. Not anymore.”

“I find it passing odd that you would leave Ashara behind, then,” he said in a tone that implied he knew far more than she thought he did. “But then again, I find it even more odd that Ashara would leave you.” He threw a dash of something white into the mortar.

Elia remained silently, watching groggily as he finished the mixture and scraped it into a cup of watered wine. He mixed it together, ran the cup several times through a candle flame, and put the rim to her chapped lips.

“Drink,” he commanded. She did so, swallowing the concoction with much effort; it was a bitter tasting thing, not unlike the taste of her own bile. She crinkled her nose until the taste dissipates from her tongue, then looked to her brother warily.

“You are better known for poisons, brother, and this certainly tasted like one. Should I be worried?”

Oberyn scoffs. “A woman half on her deathbed should not be making jests.” He gave her an admonishing look. “Sleep. You will sweat out the fever in time. I’ll find a wetnurse for your babe.”

“ _Lewyn_ ,” she returned in what was a scold as weak as her body. “His name is Lewyn.”  
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As promised, she had sweated out the fever overnight, though what remained behind was still sickness and strife. Oberyn half-carried her to the wheelhouse, which she now shared with a wetnurse named Lyla, who swore she had nursed the late queen’s very own babes, once.

“Will you be returning to King’s Landing?” Elia asked her brother weakly, as she laid down upon the bed.

“The king owes me a boon,” her brother growled, still cross with her, but pitied her enough to spare her the brunt of it. “I have to see if he delivers.”

“I wish you would let him be,” Elia said with a shuddering sigh. “He is a good man, I swear it.”

He gave her a withering stare. “And not the father of your babe?”

Elia was too tired to glare. “You know he is not. I told you as much.”

“Then who is, Elia?”

“What will you do to him, if I give you his name?”

“Speak to him.”

“With poisoned tongue, or forked?”

“I did not abandon my children because I no longer desired their mothers,” Oberyn reminded her sharply. “This man has a duty to your child.”

“He cannot do anything, Oberyn. He would if he could.”

“We will see if the king agrees. Tell me his name.”

Arthur was already losing too much-- her joy had been his pain, and the honor he had guarded so deeply had bowed and broken beneath the weight of a small child. To tell Oberyn now accomplished nothing but a swifter blow to Arthur’s heart; he could wait, Elia decided. He could wait until he was in Dorne again, with a thousand miles between him and Arthur Dayne. Oberyn could spit fire and exchange words with the king if he liked, perhaps he may blunder and say too much, but he could still walk away from King’s Landing. But Arthur-- who knows what was to happen to Arthur?

"Will you tell the king something for me?" Elia asked, without waiting for an answer. "Tell him he may use my name." Arthur swore he would not, but Elia wanted him to-- and Rhaegar did not deserve a stain on his own name.

"What do you mean?"

Elia closed her eyes and feigned sleep. She was tired, after all, and still slightly feverish. She simply hadn’t the strength to speak, nor Oberyn the heart to shake her awake. He walked away, his thundering footsteps implying a simmering rage. It could come to a boil and blow in King’s Landing, but her brother had a way of slithering away in one piece from all manner of mistakes. He would be fine.

That was more than what Elia could say for Arthur Dayne.


End file.
